A fragile December morning reminiscent of a faded minor tone spread across the floor of his Paris bedroom, and swelled, cold, crisp and immaculate towards him as he raised himself up in the bed; a promised day of asepsis. He coughed and ran his fingers across his stomach, through his already-turning-grey fur, and found the only bare and pale hairless spot, about the size of a button, and pressed his index finger against it. This pleased him greatly, a furtive little private act of transgression, an austere gentleman such as himself, he thought, could allow himself such a gesture strictly by virtue of silence. Morbid and insipid, perhaps, but only if seen (yet, this danger was precisely that which (though unthought-of (an abysmal sediment of desire)) sustained the delight of the act, its hard kernel, and conducted his fingers towards the secret centre of his body each morning). He rose, and proceeded to the mirror, where he inspected his teeth, his nostrils, gazed deeply into his dark eyes and then, not lacking in fascination, exclaimed, as he did almost every morning (especially on mornings such as the one confronting him now), “i am still dreaming” (he called this his “principle of parsimony”) and smiled at his ability to summon scientific knowledge. Now, the monsieur was perfectly aware that this condition was not what you encounter in sleep, he was not sleeping, in fact, it was just stated he had risen (fully cognizant it should be noted (he recalled in vivid detail his dream of the night (where he found himself as a caged rodent))) and he was no somnambulist: the exclamation issued directly from Reason, unadulterated by imagination or fancy. It was simply a necessary instauration, a ritual, drawing from his general condition of being-not-quite-human, yet, contemporaneously, being-human; an uncomfortable antinomy which would tease and tickle any sense that could rightfully be called common. Yet, despite these unfortunate daily confusions, and given his virtue of prudence (and a firmly established reputation concerning just that): on this cold, crisp and immaculate December morning reminiscent of a faded minor tone, he had engagements to meet– he was already late, far, far too late, for an appointment with a busy tailor and the city’s most exquisite photographer awaited in the afternoon (so, as always, this particular mystery had to remain unsolved (for the time being (would there ever be time))?
