Their existence of the drawer in which they live seems a sad one, as attrition claims them, one by one. Partnerships are irrevocably severed, and the survivors make what brief connections they can before oblivion claims them as well. Death by ladder or by hole; inevitable as they are, they at least seem to be relatively painless ways to go.
I can't tell if that clarion call that summons me is the laundry room or the store. It might be both, commanding crys commingled.
Either way, I must obtain kneehighs, tonight!