The Twitter and Facebook counters are still either not working or recording at random. Weebly who host the site are being absolutely hopeless.
don’t stop ‘til we get there, the cat said. his ears back and his tail striking out like a coiled towel. through the slit of his travel box i could see two eyes and one paw. don’t worry pusspuss, i said. he didn’t move. you hear me, dean moriarty? i said that louder. he meowed. what a trip. his purr took on the purpose of a chainsaw. and the tempo of jazz. he padded impatiently up and down his cage. up. up. up. down. down. down. the forward movement of the car was not enough. he wanted to meet the future at pace. to run headlong into whatever was out there. he began to spit the catnip as winos spit tobacco. big, with lazy purpose. when we stopped for gas, he was asleep. the adventure had been too much. when the future opens up on the road, your whole life can seem like a prison cell. or a cat box. the only adventure now was the twitch of his sleeping whiskers. we arrived and his eyes blinked open. the first hands to grab him were grandma’s. the wizened fingers like broken twigs, just hours from being connected to arms for 95 years. in defiance at the inevitability of death, he bit her. and dropped to the floor. dancing. running. gliding. he sniffed every corner every crevasse. the strange. the unfamiliar. the frightening. finding life, man, finding life! it came in the form of banksy. not the crooked politician. not that manifestation of everything wrong and square. no, it was banksy, grandma’s cat. hissssssssssss meeeeooooowwww communication. listen to it. feel it. run. run. run. the motel’s lights blinkered like the welcome of a relative moderately annoyed by our visit. but the night was a blur of catnip and curtains. the party, the relatives, the groping hands, the claws. the motel. get past the man. sleep. wake. we had to get out of there unseen. the towel that covered the cat cage looked like a towel stealing a tv. hello, we smiled. the motelier smiled back? keep going, the cat said. left behind the crystals kicked up from the kitty litter tray looked like small rocks of methamphetamine. blow their minds. back on the road. always on the road. but the journey was over. back through time to our beginning. pusspuss jumped on his couch. head spinning. what a trip, man, what a trip.
The Twitter and Facebook counters are still either not working or recording at random. Weebly who host the site are being absolutely hopeless.
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25/8/2020 12:39:11 am
The occasions in Tottenham and Walthamstow bear a striking closeness to the still more famous Siege of Sidney Street in the East End two years after the fact, when Winston Churchill went with a unit of Scots Guards to flush out another group of progressive Jewish burglars.
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26/1/2024 05:40:55 pm
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