If animals could talk they’d say — We pick our clothing by the rules. We can’t get you out of our thoughts? Handle it? Come closer, you’re scary.

We sleep at night with our eyes open and keep a diary, hastened by its agenda in one vein, pierced to the root in another by a confusing lunch. Flowers by the table, you, a song over half the house (better than none), liquor and your voice. You came in like a gospel singer. The sweetness outside not wavering in dusk to rain and to a rational depth, we’ve got you in the crosshairs.
Freed from wow, congrats... animals no more!

Exactly. But the hand-on-thigh thing... You know, to the outside eye, to the person... who doesn’t know what a forgiving, wonderful person you can be... this looks like you’re — per the Veda — confused. How do your readers feel about you dwelling in this beastly cesspool?