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he’s so contagious, he turns my pages

the enduring figure of almost four years of the Truman’s Brewery to LoFi cultural trail, white cat’s fur is all fluffed up with white cloud and other meteorological metaphors. He has been here the whole time, each sunday flower market seems to arrive quicker than the last and take over his street. so during this week of autumn serenity, long hoped for calm, wisdom of age*, he likes to sit on the car, let the wind comb his fur, forget about slipping profits and listen to his music.

*TS Eliot Quartets found more favour than that asshole Seneca

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