Every day there seems to be more black cat in the garden. Today I go to have coffee in the morning and four huddled next to the dugout. Rain and are just wet. The smallest is about mewing. He climbs to the granite table and the corner looks at me with those yellow eyes and cold. Those eyes remind me of the raptors, they look, just look, but do not seem to transmit anything.
Like most cats if you have been is because they want something. I guess he's hungry, or cold, or both. I have nothing to offer, no food or shelter. Approached his hand to caress. I assume that should be accustomed to humans. I do not like cats too but its touch, like most people.
When I'm eight inches comic me, jumps down and runs away. I said, is a cat. And cats are a bit like people, or people like cats, do not know ... Want something, want something, they need something but rarely are willing to give anything in return. We
bugs apathetic, selfish, locked in a huge reptilian brain.
a while ago I finished the coffee and the group of cats has slipped under the fence, to try their luck with the neighbor. Optimists would say something like, "there's always a way out, an opportunity in the garden next door." But I lack the nomadic spirit, if you can call it that.
's almost eleven and the sky overcast Finsbury Park again a slightly lighter gray than the roof of the building opposite. Gray very similar to one of the walls of my old bedroom. One bedroom ...
Somehow the coffee, garden, sky and even the cats of Rock Street just me remembering all that miss it so much, I want while paradoxically forced me to flee. A run and ramble about things that I'll finish early and quiet understanding.
And if there is something similar to what I conceive to be happy everything will be as it once was in the best sense. But today I feel that this is still a world of cats.
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