Something barnlike belies the carpet and curtain. The gravelly sound of jaws and popcorn underfoot make the percussive music of ruminant waiting. Drifts of spilled kernels leave the butter-slick floor bedded in cinematic silage. Almost, I expect a rumbling moo to well up from this aisle or that. After all, is this not a room of dreams? May not the Guernseys of surmise stamp, chew, and low the whimsy of their being in such a place of reverie? Does not one elaborate metaphor call up another echoed by the fact?