I was in the basement of my parents' home when I peeked behind an old MagnaVox television. Something, I don't know what, convinced me to look. There I found a recently-severed arm. It had on very little blood, though I knew someone lost it only hours prior. How I knew I again had no idea. An old acquaintance, Taylor, was at that time my roommate, though I was not living in the same place as he. I lived at that time in the basement where I found the arm. I brought it into the bathroom on the ground floor where I attempted to clean a smudge on its wrist, a thick, dirty oil. I was largely unsuccessful, but perhaps half of the stain I contentedly removed. I returned to the basement and another unknown force compelled me to seek the arm's owner, not because of a concern over his safety and welfare, but because I wished to inform him that I picked up his arm and tried to wipe off a smudge. I knew he was well, though I again knew not how I knew. He would be glad at my efforts to tidy his appendage. I suddenly found myself in our apartment, the one in which I never lived. It resembled a dorm room more than a living space. On the floor resided tacky, shag, gray carpeting, a desk and a bed in one not very large room, perhaps three by eight meters. I awaited him, realizing his alcoholism might be an issue. Not really a good friend. Somehow, I knew he was headed home, and then I found myself again in the basement of my parents' house. He waited in the garage. I ascended the stairs, up towards the red door where the garage met the house interior, greeting him warmly. He was healthy and sound other than having lost an arm.
Tidy
KAS