I was reading this book. Perhaps he had the right idea.
I go out to find the cat. He’s the only one that would understand. You see, I’ve been seeing things lately. Travel for one thing, but also strange visions, rotating pantheons of Hindu gods, vivid dreams, water, mirrors, light. Sometimes it makes happy sense and sometimes sad. Things seem alternately good or bad, and both moments feel true. In between, however, this world seems largely indifferent. It only bothers me when it wants something and it’s nice when it feel like it. Like the cat.
I’d like to ask Damian where he is. If he even understands where he is, or how he got from America to here. Sometimes he sits on the windowsill and looks out the window. The crows fuck with him, he yips at them, impotently. I wonder if he understands how he ended up 70 feet in the air. He goes out at night. I wonder if he ever takes the elevator.
I don’t think he wonders at all. The only things I’ve seen freak him out are the CD drive and thunder. And getting a thermometer up his bum. He just sorta is and he’s comfortable, unless he’s unhappy and then he poops on my bed. It is taking me a countless amount of time and energy to reach similar conclusions. I really wish the cat would give me some advice.