There is shakiness in the morning, and in the most basic of terms, the desire to pull the safety pins from my arm in the midst of the summer hanging baskets. It’s fucking beautiful. Apparently the size of my pupils grew to the point where they nearly swallowed me whole; a relaxing effect of the little cream-coloured ones, just like the slackening in my red meat consumption, or my bladder control. Just that one time.
We’d had a conversation in the car about devouring the taxidermy, and I was greatly disenchanted by your lack of enthusiasm. Later, the fox with the deer antlers slowly made his way up the outside stairs, and as I turned down the volume on the television, I could hear the knives in his hooves clinking together with each difficult step. I turned to face you to ask you to run with me, but you were already asleep. I made sure the window was left open for almost easy access and locked myself in the bathroom.