Unstitched

I unstitched myself the other day, and from my abdomen spilled out the treasures of my body, slick with blood. In the sun they glistened prettily, and I lifted them, feeling their warmth in my hands, the animation of life within them, which, of course, was the same which animated me. I admired them each and ordered them in neat rows, and destroyed these rows and began anew, sorting them differently according to my whim. This I did several times. Though the exercise pleased me well, I had to abandon it eventually. But, when I tried to put back the organs of my body in their proper place, I couldn't remember where each went, or how, and they simply wouldn't all go back in, though they had fit very well before. Embarrassed, I sat on the ground and wept, realizing too late there is a good reason why we are stitched together as we are, and that one shouldn't go about unstitching himself, notwithstanding the treasures which are lain up inside him.