The cat ran out the door and up the stairs to the apartment above. “It’s the same fucking apartment dude, it’s empty too.” As if something different is out there. Raw raw pessimism. Alive with the purpose of flexing muscle, doing the duties we’ve been requested to do. Malcontent. Pessimism. Or something like that. Autobiography of the general surgeon, or the surgeon's general views on life cycles, the cat is licking its fur. This cat? Undecided in terms of grooming. We’re grooming absolute measurements. Cyclical. Or cycle through the list of accomplishments. Tanks and warheads later.

All systems go. Go fishing in the bay. Working up to the last pail of water, to feel as if we’ve done something evil, or provocative. This circle of fluff is hairy fur. Tweeter got knocked by smelly. Tool got bent. These observations mark the seventh anniversary of marking things down. If it makes you feel better you may proceed. The real penchant is training grounds for excitement, the excitable allies of the gravel truck. Yuck. Politics manifest as production towards procreation. The subtleties of production marked by manufactured homes and the products within these homes. Loosely based on a true story, the truck is filled with kinetic passengers. A hobby is more like a flotation device, and floats to the surface.

Looking for direction the pig takes its cue from the farmer’s schedule. Rent a car and submit to fines induced. We all pale Friday, finally. Cats will continue licking their fur, cleaning by and for the most acceptable of weevils. We evil. Recharge the booty call. Displace depth, diaphragms, pregnant axles and gums of steel. Release all agents marked “toxic.” Worry. This is the story of the day. Dreaming this morning of a train on a schedule away from the base, we might ask what the water flows to, but, ah well.