Cat inside the mountain on a monday

Estra hit her head on the ceiling of the attic room that would be her bedroom for two nights at the cottage in Dorset. Hit her head and laughed of herself, after having shared a bottle-and-a-half of wine in the kitchen with the photographer, the photographer's assistant, and the sexagenarian Irish model. Laughed of herself and laid in bed and called her lover who found himself 235 miles away to the north.

The next day she found a strategic point (from the point of view of a cat) on the pebbles that constitute the ground of Eype Beach and sat there, her back against the ravine, to eat a small square of dark chocolate while the sexagenarian Irish model and the English model (who looked a lot like Joni Mitchell, Estra thought, and who drove from Bath that morning) were photographed, also by the ravines, which, according to the stylist, were in danger of collapsing with the slightest human touch.

From that strategic point, while Estra attempted a reading splattered by water that ran down the ravine's clay and got blown by the wind (the wind, sun's language), her attention disputed for by literature and the sound of grains that now and then rolled down to land on her side, suddenly she paid attention to a third adversary, the peak of a hill to her right, and she decided to give the latter the prize of her grace, or the latter decided to give her the prize of its grace.

It was a small mountain, its peak on the edge of a cliff. Estra walked around the cabin where the team finished their lunch, after she too had finished her lunch and after excusing herself as her person wasn't required that day, and she started uphill through the paths of grass and mud.

Her lover called, from a train station under the same sun, where he digested the almost-same literature. I'm between sheep and ravine, Estra said gazing at the hill and its peak. Between the point where I now stand and the point that from here I stare — and I'm not sure whether to continue hiking? Estra asked. (The more I hike, the more I shorten my reading time, she thought but didn't say it, conscious of her own judgement's pettiness.) And why not? Love replied.

Estra siding the cliffs, marching amidst sheep that would freeze their ruminations at her sight and, paralyzed, watch her pass. The sheep know I'm ladypuma, thought Estra, that is why they fear me and don't fear me. I climb almost stealthily, she thought. I feel like a nightingale, she thought happily. It was a simple and antiquated and ridiculous sentiment, but it was the only thing that fully expressed her current state of mind. Estra nodding at the sheep, Puma concolor proceeding the solitary climb as if there wasn't such thing as a home, as if she could return to her nomad condition for the brief duration of an afternoon, while at the foot of the hill there's a den, and 158 miles away there's her den. England standing for Tamriel as Eype for Khenarthi's Roost.

My fingers are rigid, too chilled for me to write extensively under the Winter sun on a cliff's edge before the sea that breaks in Dorset, and the waves slowly approaching the beach reveal themselves as the veins and arteries of the ocean, its nerves well calm this english Monday, and so I'll write down only the core of that which reveals itself as I. When the cat gets to the peak, it wants to descend a little. Protect itself from the wind, which at times is too violent for creatures. A concavity on the mountain's body offers shelter. Loyalty and humility offer relief from egotism's toxins. The cat descends more, and laughing it follows with its eyes the racing hares toward their burrows.

What's marvellous about life simulation games, which are equivalent to real-visceralist literature, Estra thought now back on the beach, back on the ravine's feet and gazing at the peak from which she had just descended after having just ascended it, is that a creature can see itself from the sky-highs or from the other's-distance, see itself in the world's landscape, from the distance that mystery imposes to the explorer, that the invisible imposes to the individual, and that the creature must learn to love so that it can learn to love. The distance that a cat imposes to the human is the apprenticeship of love. It is simple and antiquated and ridiculous, but almost stealthily, a nightingale. On the horizon the sun sets on the sea. The horizon is inside the mountain.