Damp, so into the dryer they go. To tumble their way along.

All fiction, actually. There are no damp sweaters. They haven't been washed, they haven't been playing in the rain. That may be a part of the problem, but since there's no problem with that, I suspect it's just word-play. They play with my temperature and words don't even come across as anything to speak of, even if they be all I could speak.

I try to roar, I try to purr, I try to bark. Animals do better, doing what they do best, moment to moment reality without projections and relapses. Just scratch at fleas, dig holes, squat, raise legs, whimper, howl. All honest, all non-fiction since they don't have the luxury of making stuff up. No imagination spritzed with bubbly fancy thinking.

They have no need to consider places. Just find one, walk around in a circle three times, settle down to the place. Simply and surely fine with everything because I can only imagine the contradictions for them, devise their complaints in their stead, just put myself in their lack of shoes and be glad I'm wearing comfortable socks.

Grooming comes naturally, so they lick and bite and stretch. So much easier for me that I neglect it and turn on the A/C to see if I can fake the not-quite-summer into telling me to put on another coat. They just shed.

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