Lasagnaface

Theodor paced to and fro in the dark living room, frantically running fingers through his short blonde hair, a small orange rug providing the only break in the sound of his repetitive footsteps whenever he trod upon it, looking out the windows to ensure the angles of the landscape had not shifted yet again while he was in the land of slumber. He looked upon the mahogany rocking chair, and the old, decrepit man who sat there. He wondered if the old man had always been there, and if there was an old man like him in every other house deep in the hills. He wondered if these other, theoretical elders looked like his, or perhaps looked different. M