its a quiet day, full of procrastination [and popsicles, red ones are my favorite].
pollock is playing with a bug through the window, he keeps pawing the glass thinking he can catch it.
poor bugger, pollock, that is. not the bug, hes safe.
its like when pollock stalks the shifting shadows late in the afternoon, we face due west you know. the shadows dance and pollock, he just goes crazy. possessed, he looks, in the late afternoons.
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