wildcat

Honestly! Sitting the laundromat with the sunlight filtering through glass and hitting my back just so, about half-an-hour before I'd even normally be stepping foot out of the Margaret Atwood Boardinjg House, some woman with pastel-painted skin to match her pastel blouse and pastel-turquoise trenchcoat opened the door, hollered something, and then dumped copies of The Watchtower and Awake! Magazine on the unused counter underneath the bulletin board before turning and walking straight back out. Leaving a cloud of chalk dust.

Rather than process the situation, I wrote a reptile's death scene in my little notebook for use in this fictional thing I'm writing, whatever it is.

Then I went for a sticky, smelly ride on the bus and ate Lotus Pond while dark-dark-dark clouds gathered hesistantly on the horizon before bumpering over to work.

But I'd swear the pastel-woman's dust gathered in my lungs this morning and has followed along with me, driving me ever closer, onward, stutteringly into madness...