I drink a dark English stout. I stare at the cat, which is
relaxed on a pillow. Does he worry about time? Missed opportunity? He sleeps 3/4s of the day away. His main concern is slipping out the front door, an odd romp in the backyard, the chasing of birds, and bugs. I wish I were feline. Cat I am not. I am a neurotic human male. One with his own quirks. One that can not decompress. Rush, rush. I go and go. Stretch, yawn, scratch.
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