It’s late inside the Con Edison Building. Everyone else has gone home. You’re trying to write a press release for a light bulb that lasts 17% longer than ordinary bulbs.

Winter is outside, with its early darkness. You think of another kind of bulb, the tulip bulb in the frozen earth. That’s not right, but you can’t disregard it. You have to consider every possibility. Because you never know. Okay, the tulip bulb’s not going anywhere. It’s too much like a dream.

You’re tired, obviously. You look out the window. The light bulbs of New York City are all in use. Perhaps the blue and silver packaging is your angle. It’s not. They would never go for it. Perhaps you should get out of public relations and into horticulture.

Your overhead fluorescent lights are off (they give you a headache). Your desk lamp is on. You turn that off, too. Then you do that which you know you shouldn’t: You lay your head on the desk and close your eyes.

A tulip bulb frozen in the earth. You can see it from underneath, from a corpse’s eye view. It looks like a dog’s testicle. But it’s not. It’s too big for that. It’s an elk’s. A tired elk, who had an idea. A light bulb went on over its head! Unfortunately, the idea—to nap upon your coffin—was bad. The elk froze in its sleep. And they just dumped the dirt right on top of it. Hold on, stop the presses. Would they leave your coffin in an open hole long enough for an elk to doze off on it, let alone freeze to death? It could’ve been an older elk—

“We have just been listening to the music of the Soviet Union.”

Your eyes open. The tiny red light bulb on your radio is illuminated. But there has been no music, or anything.