Another Day.

He wakes up. There it is. There is the sun. Hanging in the sky again. There is cat vomit sat in a little pile – a little welcoming pile by the bookcase. The cat doesn’t point it out and it does not smell bad. It is dark and he nearly steps in it with his bare feet but he notices it just in time and he doesn’t step in it with his wet feet. He does not feel cold cat vomit rise up between his toes…

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The Sleepcoat League

Armchair anthropologist, sometime scribe, freelance philosopher, amateur artist, part-time poet, musical maven, alliteration aficionado.

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