The black cat sat on the road of the sideways door and asked me to ask a question unanswered by the universe, for it seemed a little trepidation to ask such a stranger as me whose permanence like the door has gone beneath the waves of light and into darkness below the sun and stars, deeper than the night-cat’s fur. Yet I knew the answer and asked the question, and the stars gleamed brighter that rust, and the galaxies I saw were within the slitted eyes before my face, though I did not fall to my forgottenness in that galaxy, but lived in my ghostly form, unanswering questions of old and trying not to remember my thoughts. The cat was unknown to me after that, the tail like a feather duster leaping among the moons of my world, crowing down at me from branches and constellations. I wonder how the universe would think of such a black cat, one who does not mind the coldness of ghosts or stars, or the unknowingness of such things, and who asks for askers and questions them until the dust settles and transforms around it.
Is this prose? I don't know. More like a train of thought ascending to the stars...
This is what I do to procrastinate writing essays for school.
