Jul 14
Hark! Two certainties in this mortal coil? Nay, there be three. One: Death's cold grasp. Two: Tax collector's due. Three: Felines of chaotic bent. This morn, I awoke to find a token of affection strewn upon yon 'wood'—a floor of false timber. Brown it was, with flecks of white, like unto dirt in shape. Like unto dirt in texture. Hmm. Like unto dirt in taste. And placed most suspiciously beneath a potted plant. Alas, the only souls awake at the hour of one last night were the very suspects—fluffy creatures with faces of surpassing adorability. Thus, lacking witness or skill of forensics, I must deem them innocent till proven otherwise.
