Thursday, February 4, 2010


"I think this is yours".
I am handed a small, grey bundle of fluff, with eyes of golden time.

Those eyes, every simple pleasure, radiating acidy goodness and drawing me into their luminous and vast intelligence. Those eyes, golden spheres specked with dark matter, observant and calculated and undoubtably wise, arrogant even, but playful and curious and an infinite everything. Those eyes, those eyes of light and time, holding the universe with precise vision and estimated certainty. Those eyes...

I named him Tyme-Orpheus days before I set my own sickly, hollow and desolate eyes upon his. I held him, and he looked at me, and I knew our fates were intertwined.

I saved his life, and he was destined to save my spiritual self, because a dream told me so, dictated by the doctor.

The very first eve of our meeting, I took the favored chemical of psychedelic measures, known to us as LSD. I took it within, and I gave him a part of my mind, bonding with him immediately, holding him to me as protection and comfort and every speck of limited hope left to me in this cold, cruel world.

Around his neck, he wore a purple collar with a bell. His paws were soft and his movements were agile, a fluffball of vicious love. Soft, cushiony grey fur covered his little, stumbling body. Pink tongue protruded as he let out his little meows of protest at too much cuddling, and purrs of morning face-nuzzles.

I would sleep with my arm around him, as his purrs and my vibrations aligned. He would trot through every house I visited, through every park I ventured to, through the arms of every being I had ever acquainted myself with. What was mine, was his.

He would curl himself upon my lap for hours as I chattered about the universe in all it's infinite possibility over tabs and joints and glasses. And once upon a time, the ganja was blown in his little face and he closed his eyes and smiled like Buddha, devouring the entirety of his food supply, storing it somewhere in his little belly.

I sort of resented this. I wanted his first time high to be special, with me, and naturally, when he was older than a little lion.

He would boldly slash at the big dogs and the tom cats, pouncing upon them with glee. No fear was in his heart, aside from the dreaded bath time. Whenever a male would venture too close to me and I gave the slightest notion of protest, he would pounce, claws out, teeth bared. A little lion, bold and loving.

He would clamber up stairs and hid behind couches in foreign homes, and we would search for him for hours, and out he would come, tail high in the air, quite well proud of himself in fact.

He was quite the little heart-breaker, gathering little girl kitties to his side, and I did so promise him he would not die a virgin. No cat of mine would be fixed. He would rape all the bitches and get 'em pregnant and make me kittens, if only when he were a little older!

One day, in the light of the morning, a wicked witch of the west took out her dislike of me upon my kitten, and out went Phi, never to be seen again.

Where are you, my pet, my friend, my companion? My young man with eyes of time and fur like silk... Do you roam the streets of Kelmscott, tail held high? Are you safe and warm in the arms of someone who would love you as I did? Or did a worse fate befall you?

I miss you painfully, my little lion. I search for you, and worry for you, and cry for you as the days go by, hoping you will return to me. I pray for the universe to guide you back, and if not that, to keep you safe and happy.

My little one, I love you. It took me a long time to say it to you, but do you remember when I did? I love you so very, very much. I wish for your safety, and I long for you to be back in my arms, soft and warm.

Wherever you are, I hope your curious mind is content, my little prince. Please be safe.

Love from,
Your dearest companion,

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