That's what the label says. Stool sample... Tube... Passerby were amazed by the unusually large amounts of blood. Can itself filled with inspecific something, vaguely heavy and not so vaguely sloshy. The paper is faded and peeling a bit at the edges... Diet pill... It has sat here for awhile, it would seem, in this vaguely lit cupboard, and only now open to the outside world once more. Butt-face!
But now there is a handstand on it, fluttered in with the open door... Bread knife... US Navy F/A 18 Super Hornet... Such terrible tales. Dire. Atrocities, horrors, unspeakable agony. These tales have no sense of plot or compositional storytelling. Bass guitar... The moth does not seem particularly happy... Perhaps the Sin Dog itself... Bikini... Corset... Indeterminate can... Thong...
The zombie, though, it wants it. It wants to know what's there. In a moment, anything can be perfect relative to anything else. Then the moment dies and the elses change... So yes. Open it. Needle... Feces... Do not enter the garden. There is no recollection here. Turing machine... Open it!
The moth is dislodged in the process, and without further ado, flutters off into the dim.