Elvis has left the building.

A low twang. Bits of cotton fluff left over from the last commision fly into the air. He walks down the road with his oversized guitar. That he uses to fluff out cotton. You give him a flattened down cotton mattress. He carefully opens out the seam. Gets the cotton out onto a widespread sheet. He airs the cotton . Catching sunbeams. And then gets his string twanging. There's a rhythm he builds up. Pluck string throw cotton onto string. Pluck string, throw cotton onto string. And soon he's lost in a haze of lightly fluffed cotton. That gets fluffier and fluffier and takes longer and longer to float back to the ground. He tensions the string as the cotton gets looser. The pitch of his instrument goes higher. Till the cotton is lighter than air. He stuffs the cotton back into the mattress. Collects his money and leaves the building.
And that night even if there was a pea under the mattress you'd never have felt it. Ever.