Vexed Vixen

They stay, and stay, at their respective tables (this is the wooden sleeping surface the hairless talls eat from, and I on my respective chair. I pat their leg and try to psychokinetically derive a budge from their hand to my back, or more key, their eye into my eye but, heh. No go.

They are absorbed in looking at the giant glowing eye, some oracle that acts as a focusing device. I posit that it gives a boost to their communication abilities much like our trances to dance to another dimension closer to Cattess Mror or a more prosiac dimension of mouser fields or soft-dirt pads for scratching our physics equations on.

The evening seems long without proper company. Maybe I should trance myself and be more productive, like my hefty cohort-of-the-closet snoring softly on top of the subject’s jacket. She says she can touch telepathy from it but with the scramble that is her brain, I know her readings can be, shall we say, inaccurate.

I am sure from my own independant observations for example, that the hairless talls, have not danced with fishmongers or spent the evening with sailors. Running my translation matrix across a flyer haphazardly dropped by the subjects and cross checking the references, I think that the moist morsel of truth within my colleagues readings from the jacket is the word “mackerel” from a play by someone called Shakespeare called “The Saleman of Italy”. The information was leveled by her poor observation and spiked with her imagination. Hissworthy.

Miao for Now

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