rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


The cat leaves her window sill perch, her nose parting the drapes, and drops to the desk where she sits for a moment, yawning. Her arrival indicates that she has had enough of watching the night turn pale, and she is ready for sleep. If I don't make down the bed within a few minutes, she will begin to nag. The cat is the one who makes me go to bed. If not for her, I would lose track of time and never get to sleep before full dawn.

The silence of the unawakened street is broken by the car which brings the newspaper. As it turns in the driveway, its headlights flash across the drapes. When I go out to fetch the paper, the flowers have regained the color lost by night, and birds are beginning to chirp. I don't read the headlines. One does not read such things before sleep. I want the purring of cats and the song of birds in my dreams, and the bursting buds and rustling leaves, not the doings of men.

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