A snowstorm paints the candy canes, the huts, the barrels of toys. The dead salesman, who died in some play, was in search of his father. So he materializes out of this snowstorm and finds himself knocking of Father Christmas’ industrial-revolution era monstrous edifice. After receiving an exhaustive pat on the back, his childhood memories shirking him away, he’s sent back into the snowstorm. The candy canes disintegrate, the Christmas temples are buried in white. And out of that numb nothingness, an armchair, the posts of his bed, the four walls, the circular window, even the stuffed animal frog embraced by his arms rise from his eyelids.
It kind of works, except what kid would be reading death of a salesman?
