auto correct poetry can be charming and grand. r. is going under the arch and over the mississippi in saint louie. i sit with cats and the winds buffet the window, unnnerving the cats though they settle with me. i'm looking at dogs and graffiti but they don't know that, and occasionally talking to them about din-dins imagining what they say, is he talking to us or to himself again, sometimes i can't tell the difference, it's english anyway which we don't speak and he knows that and he kids i hope you can translate me cats, dig, when i get hungry you eat and when you get hungry i eat. i ramble but my butt is a fulcrum. i think i can't go out again and i don't hafta so glorious the weather can have it's way with me in a warm bed behind thermal glass. there was more and different things i was gonna say but the thoughts all strayed like a sleeping shepherd.
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