O, to be a cat basking in the summer sun; To be anything more than a human, really. To be less than all worldly desires and constant: To be approximate to a Great Unfolding. But first; O, to be that, there feline sun-bathing in the window after spring's liminal birthing of material glory: the idea of rest— the softening of continuity and death. Were I steadfast as that unyielding predator Then I might not fold beneath the barm of living; Were I less entranced by the minutiae of days Then I might rot like they do and be seen as cute. But then; O, to be that, there feline sun-bathing, Wouldn't ever I miss to have been a moral thing?
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