The kitten that followed me when I was looking for the lost moon had been sleeping with me for several weeks now. In the morning when I got up I let her out and in the evening she waited for me, at night we would go for a walk in the park.
She lasted like that for 3 weeks, until one day I found her dead in the street. Either she couldn’t stand living with me any longer, or, and that must have been it because she could have just run away, some filthy decibel frog had rushed over her with his racer to puke and lure fresh meat, just like the gorilla by uttering rutting cries. Today’s romance.
The bastard, should I have seen it or run into him I would have bitten off his balls, spat them out and flattened them. Then maybe he would discover what true romance is.
At night, I buried my mooncat in the park.
It was cold.
Ice cold.
Fastfood romantics 
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