Saturday, August 27, 2011

Rambo like sentences runs sometimes in his sleep

Rambo, motionless as the tile beneath his stomach save for his rhythmic breathing. Carpet of fur like black silk covering the floor next to the armchair holding me and, with each stroke my hand administers to his back, a new sparkle catches my eye, before receding into the blackness from which his fur runs. Raindrops in the plush.

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