I've just spent some time unpacking an old stereographic camera, projector, glasses, and slides that a donor sent us. The items were swaddled in bubble wrap of various gauges, taped with packing tape, then whelmed in styrofoam peanuts.
Strangely, miraculously, the puffy-font S's yeilded to my reach, swirling around in the box, sticking to my black cashmere sweater sleeve. Lowering my hand into the styro-depths to probe for more pop!pop!-packed goodies, I was taken back to the Ball Pit, that giant-bowl-of-Trix-esque experience that failed to disappoint.
(One of my early sex fantasies actually involved a Ball Pit -- how amazingly weird would that be?)