*The kitchen never ends so much as it meanders, eventually producing a sad sort of hallway - a sagged curve running into nothingness. Oppressively thick doors jut out from the wall with an uneven regularity, bony processes of a geriatric limb. There's no reply, but there is movement, a very deliberate shuffle, a sudden burst of...cloth. Like a cartoon explosion, strips of it expand outward from the nearest door. Silk. Faded mustard yellow. Pearl embellishments set loose on stale air. Once it drops to the floor, its origins are clear. It's an annihilated evening gown and all the sense of a matador tempting a bull*