“You have something on your mind, I think,” said the mattress, floopily. “More than you can possibly imagine,” dreared Marvin. “My capacity for mental activity of all kinds is as boundless as the infinite reaches of space itself. Except of course for my capacity for happiness.” Stomp, stomp, he went. “My capacity for happiness,” he added, “you could fit into a matchbox without taking out the matches first.” The mattress globbered. This is the noise made by a live, swamp-dwelling mattress that is deeply moved by a story of personal tragedy.
