the page remains unturned tho the bottom corner has been worried into a soft dog ear
it is not that the words are boring the plot mundane, or the prose stilted it is I who cannot read the black ink the same words repeating in my mind
as i stare out into the garden my ability to read is well below par as i day dream the hours away
content to be a warm, squishy cushion to the tuxedo rex cat, as he dreams panther dreams and purrs like a Massey Ferguson
outside the window, in the hazy warmth a dragonfly darts about the garden, before settling with dainty precision upon the craggy green mossed rock at the pond's edge, a pause, a blink, then the insect alights again
i too should be up and about.... but i am anchored by lassitude and three and a half kilos of contented cat.... whose daydreams are not to be disturbed....