Oh my best beloved, there was once a joyful thing called Punk Rock Flea Market. This was a small market in the wondrous City of Seattle that became a large market. It had so many things for sale. It had clothes and roses, crafts and laughs, art and tarts, sneakers and speakers, skateboards and dartboards, bondage gear and electronic ears, prosthetic limbs and siamese twins, bike parts and artificial hearts, graffiti and spaghetti, robots and doughnuts, and really truly twirly-whirly beany propeller hats. All the bright and shiny objects you could find in a milkcrate in the back of your grandpa's garage were contained there—so!

At last there was everything for sale within the walls of a single market and one small voice said ‘I see a thing for sale that makes me feel most unhappy.’  

So the Punk Rock Flea Market said ‘If I mean to sell everything, I will certainly sell something that causes tears. But it is only fair to tell you, this is a market of infinite resource and sagacity. And while there is always another cause for sadness, I hope that here you find at least as many reasons for joy.’

But sorrow, once it begins, cannot be stopped simply by wishing it so. The small voice became louder, and other voices joined in the crying. Finally, there was so much sadness and so many tears that the Punk Rock Flea Market felt a great emptiness. And a great dampness. And the Punk Rock Flea Market realized that the time for large markets in the wondrous City of Seattle was over, and he went home to live with his mother. But the Punk Rock Flea Market has never yet stopped to believe that the light of abundance has more splendor than the darkness of loss. And he has never yet learned how to behave.

And that is the end of that tale.