The owners of the house are familiar with the legends, the way you might be familiar with corn flakes. You might pass them in the aisle with barely a glance. Of course, the box keeps changing its design, the artwork on the front. You can't help but wonder if this is intentional. Ah, extraordinary times! If you try to survive them by carrying a corkscrew in your pocket, by whistling the Ave Maria on the sidewalk, it won't really humiliate anyone. Still, under the train trestle, we have our own theory as to why people wish to store up souvenirs. Even if it costs them their lives. It is somewhat arabesque in nature, and so secret as to change formulation from one telling to the next. But I can reveal this much. It depends on Neptune to such an inordinate degree, even its authors don't wish to show their faces now in public. They spend their evenings aboard a yacht owned by Somalis who have been careful to leave no paper trail behind. The kind of people you read about in espionage thrillers and fairy tales when you are a child and snooping about in your father's library. This is the exact same period of time when no one will play baseball with you. Thanks to the way you say 'certainly'. The way you turn yellow on occasion because of the water.