Once upon a Sunday morning, she woke up. She woke as most do on Sundays, late, and with sleep in her eyes. The bed was awfully warm and comfortable, so she lingered, drifting in and out of dreamless sleep. Eventually she pushed back the wrinkled but clean down comforter and let her feet thud to the floor. She yawned wide and stretched, feeling her muscles elongating, and it was quite pleasant. Soft feet were slipped into even softer slippers, and around slender arms a robe was draped. It was a lovely robe, with cloth like a new towel, she couldn't remember the name of the fabric, she just knew it reminded her of a thick, fuzzy towel. 'It is a very fuzzy day so far' she thought, as she padded down the stairs, blanketed in drowsiness. She muddled and seemingly incoherent thoughts as this were sleep-induced and uniform, as were her Sunday mornings. Everything was automatic, she could barely remember coking the eggs in front of her. The eggs were not so fuzzy as the robe and such, and she found them out of place and confusing. She stared down at them, and they seemed unattractive on the very pretty plate. She had never really noticed how pretty that plate was. It was white porcelain, glazed with nice blue decorations on the border. She prodded the uneaten breakfast with a shiny fork, and thought of ugly eggs and pretty plates.. But that got her wondering. How could she have never noticed how terribly marred and neglected the gorgeous plate was, covered in shapeless yellow egg? Her bewilderment suddenly turned to anger at the eggs' intrusion on the beauty of the plate. She furrowed her brow until her sleepy face looked almost menacing. Her grip on the fork tightened, and she slowly transitioned from gently prodding the eggs to stabbing at them for their arrogance, thinking they were worthy of the precious plate. She massacred the eggs, and, swept up in her anger, stabbed right through them to terrorize her beloved plate. She hacked through the glaze and began to chip away at the plate itself. Shards of porcelain flew, but in her frenzy, she paid no attention until a particularly large piece of mangled glass drew blood from her forearm. She Stopped, white knuckles on a shiny fork, poised to strike and shaking with rage. Her eyes were fixed on the little trickle of red that was starting to ooze from her scratch. She watched quietly as the line of blood grew longer and tear-dropped when it had no more arm to slide along. The little tear got bigger until the red rope could hold no longer, and it dripped. Just one drop. To her, it seemed to fall very slowly. An unearthly silence fell over the kitchen as it dripped down and down. And then it hit the plate. Splash. Her eyes grew wide and she let the fork clatter to the table. Her expression glazed over, but she remained focused on the plate and her little red tear. And she wept, but clear tears, like water, and salty. The new tears coursed down her face as she stared at the plate, the eggs, the blood. Suddenly…she stopped crying. A look of realization passed over her tear-streaked face, and she slowly, slowly stood. And she knew. Then, as if in a dream, she glided over to the front door, for gliding is common in dreams. She could hear from very, very far away, a chipped porcelain plate crashing to the floor, spilled eggs and a fork and a little red tear. But she paid no attention. Because she knew. And once upon a Sunday morning, she walked. In her towel robe and fuzzy slippers, with her arm crying little red tears, she walked and walked. She walked without thinking, but she knew all the same, and she walked, and never finished her eggs.