Louis had many, many Compact Disks in his basement.
He ran a small record company, and often, when there was a pressing of CDs for a particular release, there would be a number of them that didn’t sell. He couldn’t bring himself to throw them out, so he stored them in his basement, where they lined the walls, countless disks of music from countless artists.
Eventually, there was no more room in his basement for the unsold CDs, so he had to begin storing them in his garage. When the garage was full, Louis, rather than throw out a single CD--for each one of them felt as if it were part of the artist’s soul--began to store them in his house.
Soon, they were everywhere. There were CDs on his dining room table. There WERE CDS under his bed. There were CDs in his closets, CDs in his kitchen pantry, CDs on the windowsills.
His house, however, did not look like the home of a hoarder, for he arranged the CDs in eye catching designs, and eventually replaced all of his furniture with CD cases that he had glued together so that they formed sofas, chairs, tables, desks, and beds.
Eventually, a race of aliens who subsisted on a diet of binary code flocked to Louis’s home, where, to their tastes, his arrangements of CDs were subtle mixes of digital signals that massaged their palates to gastronomic ecstacy. And to them, the way that he had glued them together made them appear as gracefully plated meals that they could consume while seated or reclined.
These same aliens are also devout fans of all of the bands on Louis’s recording label, where the sounds they made entered the alien’s sensory receptors as bursts of ones and zeroes on their taste buds, making every concert a fine dining experience. And to this day, after every show, they crowd around the merchandise table, where they can buy take out cuisine of the sounds that they’ve just heard for the long journey back home, across the cosmos.