Even though he knew it wasn’t forever, it could at least seem that way. Hazy delirium set upon him, this time as a contented exhaustion, a culmination of disconnected happy recollections of earlier deliria.
A lovely Grecian cat––a cunning and sleek tortoiseshell––scruffed, cleaned and sparred her kitten. Every lick and playful paw between one another looked so familiar…loving; careless; immeasurable.
He held back a shiver of a giggle, and repressed a tear. Momentarily after damning his profound sensitivity to the happiest sort of sadness, he reconsidered her assertion: perhaps instead it was the saddest sort of happiness.
See Andrew Whiting. Read Andrew writing. 