At the bottom of the throat is the stomach, entrance to which void is signaled by this supermarket sign, made of boxes so small and fine that they must be made by the same porcelain manufacturer responsible for the china ballerina on the bureau of the bedroom at my grandparent's house (who, too, are lost or missing in the dark now, years later). That dancer never moved either so well or so mechanically as these spinning boxes, whose invisible mechanism for movement is a marvel lost to makers in the ordinary worlds.     That afternoon, out of the dark machinery, one of the dead of the future arrived.