Prose.
On a winter's night in mid January, an aging woman sat amongst a sea of discarded objects some her own; some not.
As always, two cats lay by her side, their own agenda obvious, the male cat sprawled in front of the heater, the female sitting, plotting her next move.
The woman wondered on the insanity of what was life, it was something she could not work out, yet she continued with the patterns presented to her, noticing the regularity of repetition.
This woman expected nothing off anyone, and expectation of nothing is a good road to walk, then you won't be disappointed, will you?
The Mog still plotted, she knew the moment the woman moved, she could implant herself on her chest, a beautiful clinging leech with a very loud purr. The tiger remained passive, merely basking in the heat of the moment.
The woman continued to ponder. In one day she had gone through every extreme of emotion, the volcano bubbling up in her heart as the petite bird would chirrup at her never again.
She knew she should calm, but she didn't feel calm; a bird which was not welcome in her garden with the legs of a human.
However, she did not forget her true feathered friends, enough seed to sustain them and a healthy helping of bread put out with some left over scraps and a tiny amount of Christmas pudding left over.
Still her heart was sore though, wondering where she had got it all so wrong? She had tried and tried all her life to help, and now even the wombat had run.
Another, now moving cat, produced the most hideous, putrid odour as the scraping began again and she dragged her weary body off the floor to attempt to eliminate the smell in a black bin bag.
The other one followed suit, as her aching bones sank just a little more into the matter which was "here". The clock showed a quarter past three as she rose again.
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