Where's My Head At?

Ladles were strewn across the floor. Long strings of spaghetti in tangled weaves lay moist in puddles of cloudy water. The countertops of the kitchen seemed abandoned halfway through preparation. Sliced carrots lined themselves in militaristic fashion on a scratched chopping board, the knots in the wood disturbed by canyons left by the blade. Bacon drowned in its own grease. The bread hadn’t been put away.

The naked body fumbled into the room and knocked itself into shelves of copper pots and pans, sending them downward to the tiles in a cascade of metal, the sound infuriating to anyone with ears. It pushed its arms in front of itself to feel its surroundings. The result, panic. It began to move more erratically falling over tables and knocking over knife stands and stumbling into the prongs of forks and corners of counters before slipping on the spaghetti.

There it now lay, a motionless headless naked body with no reason to get up.

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