A Cat with Hands (or some minor archana)

I owe kisses to my daring cinematographer who slashes me with jagged shadows and brings passing street lights to streak against the taxi windows. Some 3rd rate cortex homunculus now has decided that all streaky greys are unbelievably alluring and the park bench denizens are disguised Lotharios trapped into their own circular plot lines. I'd smack him if I could, but you see, he's a bit too small for smacking and much too slippery.

Morose contemplation suits you, says my reflection and I tilt the hat veil sideways and shrug on an overcoat in faded mauve.

The poetics of nightwalking are my smoky oblation and they burn up unwritten into the air: Please, you un-unknown Gods, bless yourselves in whatever way you know how and keep reality far, far away from us.

This way I forget that most times I stay in, dress up as the Page of Cups and doze.