I dreamed a golden cat rang my doorbell with its tail.
He was carrying a small sun and walked past me in a hurry as I opened the door.
The cat said, “Is dinner ready,” though I had never agreed to cook dinner for a golden cat.
It sat on my couch, turned into a loaf of bread, then back into a cat, offended that I noticed.
Melted butter was dripping off the wall, and we gathered it into pink and green bowls.
The cat yawned, swallowed the clock, and everything felt finished and perfectly wrong.
Wrong is good sometimes.
Georgia
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