WIP
Low-angle sunlight arrived tap dancing along trails of refracted shimmer, describing the chaotic topography of a marginal creek. My orange homicide-repellent vest smells vaguely of urine; this I know to be true. However this objective certainty (derived from having witnessed Echo the dog piss all over it a day prior) produces only the superficial discomfort a funeral goer may experience with the fleeting awareness that they are mourning at only their own height above many anonymous corpses, each in their own ghastly stage of decay; I smell nothing. Responsibility for a recent arbor theft is boastfully taken, and received with entirely non-disingenuous (by at least two of our three, that is) chuckles and grins. Paulās general condition is based upon a particular sort of wildly unsubstantiated self-assuredness thatās equal parts amusingly absurd and alarmingly sincere, and he really just rides out human interaction from someplace very distant from the others involved.
