Down at the shore. Freudian slip when typing, shower. More Freud, I was smoking cigars. Ridiculously long cigars more than twelve inches. Eventually they'd cool and when I tried to relight them my cigar would break in two and crumble to pieces. They were fine cigars.

Cats woke me. Spot howling like Alan Ginsberg. Lilah's confused catspeak timid and inquisitive towards Great Aunt Spot. Grumpy houseape shoos them from the bedroom.

Marilyn Monroe is leaving her aleph-nullth husband. Big white house full of big white furniture for white people. It was the sixties because the decor incorporated that pale, sad, sick shade of blue. Went upstairs, walked out a window and slept on a rock ledge. Woke up when the pile of laundry which was my pillow collapsed and fell down a crevasse. Below I could see the red regolith (redolith? like a blackground which is featured at heptapod.org?) all the way to the horizon. Wind carved canyons which never once saw a drop of water held tiny Dresden doll cities in the palm of its hand. A taller version of il Duomo with more baroque flying buttresses built entirely of basalt butted against a butte. A walkway behind it led to the pope's private residence which was ivory and gold. Inched forward for a better look at the wonderland below and the rotted stone began to gave way. Common sense gave way and forced me back in the house. I hate the way I write sometimes.

Spot greeted me. Lilah was lurking atop a bookcase's shadows. Tiger was watching from the stairs. Went downstairs and greeted by a white labrador with egregiously cropped ears. Tiny triangles of flesh instead of the normal floppy ears. Went outside and the grass lent an eerie green light to the trees. Sun rose without warning and Tiger ran away. Spot sunned herself while Lilah kept jumping from shadow to shadow.