Archive for March 2021


Meow, mum, I see that you created an effigy of me and I must say that I am quite well pleased.

I know most ladies do not want to be put on a pedestal and would pref, instead, a sushi feast.

Yes, some fishy food is first choice for me, but I still want my glory uplifted to public display.

Use it only as a paper weight? Not unless you want a scritch instead of a squish my Miss Astray.

How oft, post-campestral-prowls, have I foisted gifts de rodentia to your sleep place as gestures of love?

I certainly think my likeness at top of perron—on a plinth replacing the door—might be enough.

Well, it seems that you put quite some time into the masterpiece of me and, indeed, it is quite supurrr.

For it takes me time, as well, to find your prezzies in the queaches, especially in the junipurrr.

Feline, mom-mine, I will tell you a secret, but you must promise to keep it just between me and mew.

You are—truth—the only foundation I need and morning pounces are my way of saying, “I love you!” ; )


Selfie love.

It is not so much about a selfish love—one which requires the attention of others.

It is more about an alacrity to see the me in a desired place—with a happiness on face.

Oh, one can brabble about whether or not it can even be of the selfless kind.

But, as long as Vertumnus keeps peddling growth and change, a memory-moment recorded can help one remember—then, perhaps, better.

The key is to see loves given and return that inward, passing on any misjudged view and, instead, finding charm in every adorkable you.

Love selfie. ; )


For sure, a well-lit, ventilated, empty room is a safe place to preen for an introverted Philippine.

In this phalanstery, just one belongs to the aggrupation for those who value pedi-care like that bestowed upon a queen.

For without clips and files and cuticle-keep, a bare-footed stroll might incite others’ exodus to wilderness not yet been.

Toeing the line between letting go and giving a palmary show, just enough regard exists to desire a note of acceptance after a seen. ; )


Do flowers reminisce about their time underground, in the shell of their seed?

Do treats reflect upon their story B.C. [before cookie], when they were just flour—not even ready to knead.

Will that macho noshing his matzo think about me when he goes to holy service?

Or, does my both sweet and sunny personality nudge him a different time to me-miss.

Whether ego-centric or geocentric, tales should be round—not flat.

For whether or not ackamarackus, bloomed truth is where it is at. ; )


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