Dirty basement dealings

I happened to be meandering through my spiderspook basement last night. I ill-chanced to spill beans and rice in my messengerbag, which seemed as valid an omen that I'd ought to do laundry as any, and I assessed the situation as such: any place so befilthed hadn't ought be so well lighted. Cobwebs are merely gross when you can really see them. Horror demands semiïnvisibility.
    As yon mechanized washerwoman churned, I surveyed the other apartments storage areas. Christmas paraphernalia, kayaks, industrial vacuum machines, the usual. And then I came to our unit. It's the fullest one, and of what?
Milk crates
Shoe boxes
Corrugated cardboard boxes including but not limited to:
   Beer boxes
   Table boxes
   Banana boxes
   More shoe boxes
Paint cans
Buckets
   If you should ever pass through the stately season street quadrant and need a container for goods or sundry, stop on by. I suppose that makes our storage area, boxed as it is by chickwired twos by four, a metacontainer of a sort.
   Wheels within wheels, boxes within boxes.