Experimentation….it can be presumed…is the fermentation of a diffident seed. I first ingested this recipe, licking carpet, years after adapting to the unpleasant friction initially broached by my belly and then later betrayed by the lowering of my chin. It was not the scent nor the imagined taste that coaxed my tongue forward. There was simply nothing else of primeval tender, after all, every reflection is of a historical persuasion…up for auction…every moment… available for trade. I acquired a few strands of synthetic fiber and perhaps even a bit of well-worn food. Could my offer metastasize into a form of girl talk…eventually leading to a pillow fight…ripping undetected… crashing against an unnamed face? Clearly, there was only a vague preoccupation with the occurrence, I would have to sprout a companion…which annoyed me for proving another trait. And then I tasted it again and again, and finally still…once more. Now, I was as quantified as the artifacts that I nudged. My fur growing moist, my whiskers beginning to flood. I coughed loudly and then I gagged. Practice and portrayal… while unraveling…. was progress…albeit conceited and immature. But what if the girl swung and missed? Calmly, a tradition or a recital would joyfully be labeled as hypothetical…encased by cascading feathers…my lonely self belief…welcomed by the receding stability… of the impotent, balding shag.