I was not always a tired and emotionless schism, just as my energy did not equate to a posture of eternal lounging, nor a namesake touting a stubborn and disobedient cat. Food was a vessel by way of a logical landing, from my urges came a winding slide to supply an imperious, rumbling vat–and so now at age 13, I preferred a presence in the middle of my second course, communion always tabled the offering, my stomach a sanctified cache. Digestion was an appointment at the high noon of the cinematic manifest. While the hors d’ oeuvres were memorialized as lukewarm and spineless, their flavors remained close to the nativity of first impressions, and I- part of the same intolerable, yet hopelessly charismatic, summer cast. My consumption had frequently been seen as flawless, despite the intricate efforts of my throat to slow the circling down–all raptors eventually dropped prey against the skyway. Much like the rest of us, the details had been sublime, even if the majority had been bounced against the curb or scolded by the stalker for getting in the way of a number and a hug. The bedroom was dim and cool, the mint-colored sheets showed a general distaste for the modern philosophy of housing. I did not need to be on guard to know that I could overpower the last of the spinsters, fumbling around their machinery, clanging against the puffing columns of heat with a sobering haste, symptomatic of tussling with an heirloom for charity. Though my eyes were tightened, I was above mercy, just as a storm can cause damage, without waiting for its arrival to be worthy of a name. We should all be weary of descriptions that have the evidence to support an offer that makes perfect sense from unreliable senses. It is quite possible that the warmest of throws is no match for the encouragement from my lids’ darkened jaunts. Secretly, I suspect that my neighbors are no longer happy with how the mirror reports their winnings. Deep creases and forgotten errands can easily attach themselves to the crusted edges of a yearbook page– revisionism is alive and well in first period math. The nights were growing longer, and this had nothing to do with theory or hesitation. The contrary was not of purpose nor strife, it made me want to sleep more during the unproven accuracy of what the shortened day was attempting to mask. We were well into October, tomorrow’s census of pondering-would birth a maddening path to a bruised restitution– consumption had led quite the double life–as a set of feathery, gluttonous traps.