A tall baker stands alone in his basement making a cake. The damp air in the cold and dark cement basement causes the usually fluffy-as-clouds pastry flour to clump up against itself in its small prison. The baker reaches into the small tin with careful hands, gently molding the moist flour in his skilled hands. He sifts the flour through his gentle hands like a young child in a sandbox, allowing the sand to slowly float from his fingertips to the ground.
A breeze pushes the fine dust through the air, swirling the flour slowly around the baker. The flour, still floating slowly through the air, chooses its position in the dark room wisely. The movement of the flour in the air is fluid and smooth, but at the same time, conscious and careful--like a predator stalking its prey from not too far off.
The baker inhales the white floury air, and with little warning, sneezes. His sudden exhale causes both the gracefully floating flour in the air and the still and clumpy flour in the tin to rush around the room, dominating the cold and dark room like ants encompassing a carelessly dropped piece of food.
The dusty and dark air swirls around the dark asphalt road, and the fall leaves carried by the chilly wind rebound against the old brown-grey brick walls on either side of the wide and lonely alleyway.
Children can be heard in the distance, however the slowly settling fog makes it nearly impossible for you to make out anything in front of you besides the chilly, cracked road and the constant brick walls on either side of you. Drawn out of your daydreams as the wind settles down and the childish voices are swallowed by the approaching silence, you continue forward, stepping on the dry, brown leaves. Disturbed by the obnoxious, bubble wrap-like noise that the leaves make when you step, you begin to scuff your old shoes on the asphalt.
Looking only straight ahead as your feet drag on the road, you fail to recognize the dark figure drooped over on the ground in front of you. Your right foot hits the figure, which you process to be a drooped over fawn, with small white spots decorating its back like scattered marbles.
You scream out of frustration. There's a scorching pain in your right foot. You look down at your bare foot that you just hit on the foot of a small glass coffee table in your cramped apartment. The toenail on your biggest toe is chipped down the middle, and you stare at your toe in anticipation of what will happen next. Soon, the lightning bolt-like crack down the middle of your toenail is strongly defined by red. You struggle to stop the flow of the thin blood and press hard on your toe. The blood keeps flowing, and splatters one drop at a time onto your white, shaggy carpet. You hop, still holding your toe and applying pressure to slow the flow of blood, towards your apartment door where you keep tissues. You pull a tissue out of the box and do not hesitate in wrapping up your toe in one, two, three sheets of the soft paper.
Another tissue is carelessly grabbed from the green tissue box in the corner of the room. The tissue box sits on a tall counter, resting against the wall where the counter ends and tall maroon cabinets begin. Acknowledging that I have plenty of tissues in my hand, I turn around and head towards the front of the classroom, taking care not to crash into the empty desk adjacent to the closed cabinets like I had the last time I got up to grab tissues. I feel the piercing stares of my classmates as I quickly jog my way to the garbage can. I raise a tissue to my face as quickly as I can, feeling a sneeze coming on.
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