good sunday. i didn't do a cat report did i? last night penny slept by my head, stretched perpendicularly. she took up half the bed. in the morning jasper is in her place. what are we going to do today? i should vacuum. yesterday i hung my little blue beach towel on the bar of the fire door and shut the screen and clouds of white fluff that clung to the mesh blew in around my head. when i tried to vacuum it from the screen it held tight, but when i stopped it blew around my head again. be everything as it may. some days is it possible i don't consciously think of mister? he's there beneath the surface of everything. some days i suddenly remember and i miss him. he's there always. sometimes i miss myself. 
the blue haired troll is still in the little swamp now fenced off, but folks go around, and they also push it down. i can still get to the same places but they're not the same. in a way i don't want them to be. places change and still hold memory, the change makes a place for memory. someone is playing an alto horn below on the midway i think. there's an industrial hum, but it's sunday, so it's a sunday hum. there are sounds that i don't know the source of, but i hear a train whistle coming through the distance and the birds singing near the window. we are porous, everything continues to come through.