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the problem with her cat is that she regarded it as an entity equal to herself.
she lived in an apartment she had chosen for it's beauty and its bathtub.
she often got stoned and sobbed
it was a pathway to a way she could not face
what she didn't want to face.
there was always a secret she didn't tell and she told so much it felt bizarre such a thing could be possible.
she was about to go to Florida with her mother and sister
apparently it was everything
she often galvanized herself by thinking of death and how nice it will be to be with people before it happens to one of us. She was alone and went on crying jags at the prick of a memory.
she thought it weird that now she still bled after being a LII of years but alas. there were no older women with uteruses that were like hers - bodies like hers in the family. It had been lonely.
she had learned how to be alone. animals were everything.
there was always some excuse as to why she couldn't step toward the light
the stage
the plan
the mission
lately she had tried talking to herself in the mirror
was narcissus lonely or particular?
She always made the decision to like something to love it after it had happened.
the other day the cat sat on her lap and she cried because she was reading a travis McGee book from the library and living in her own apartment being within the executive level glimpsing at her job and was there - what her little girl wanted.
still she longed for Charleston...
ha! the Paris of the USA
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