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’ It is brief before the cat forgets entirely what’s been going on and goes to play with a ratty bit of shoelace tied to a drinking straw. Today is a day for writing. I grab a pad and jot down ideas in my room, ignoring the horrible odor emanating from the other room around mid-afternoon. He burns one too often for my or anybody’s taste. He claims it mellows him. It doesn’t, he’s made worse because of the paranoia. I can’t think with the smell and when blocked I reach for a book from one of my disorganized stacks. I gave up buying shelves when I was 18. I have two, loaded to capacity, some of the shelves buckling under the weight. Paperbacks are jumbled with hardbacks, inexpensive and expensive volumes mix together in untidy heaps. Condition matters little to me in my organization. New books are stacked with the poorly bound and rotting ones. Today I’m writing sci-fi, so I pick a Richard Matheson book from the pile and flip through the acknowledgements to the first chapter, ‘PART.

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