It is always the same, this duality, double meaning, the saying of one thing and meaning another, the injected little tidbits of suggestion, and yet not what they imply at all, or perhaps exactly what intended, but disguised to be denied later if question. I am the crazy man from September, or perhaps I am not, now painted as the impatient fool, and yet maybe not, engaged in what may or may not be a game of cat and mouse, she with her broad whiskers and sharp white teeth poised outside the hole in which I hide for the moment I poke my nose out and firmly find myself in her mouth, devoured perhaps, a hint of a savage game she is far superior than I to play, if real or not, she relying on my inability to resist the cheese laid out before me temptingly before the hole, the irresistible I must resist if I am to survive, far worse last summer when I foolishly took the bait, nearly getting my head chopped as she sat before the falling knife knitting up some new plot, offering hints of forgiveness, spreading nuggets of solace if I would only cease to resist to keep from sinking faster into quick sand of my own desire I recklessly got myself stuck in, we – mice and men – are our own nemesis, perpetually drinking from a cup of poison we know will always deduce us, not nearly as clever as that cat that puts out this temptation for us, always giving ourselves away, never wise enough to simply surrender to the inevitable and to her superior intelligence, all this feeding our egos with this duality that she in her infinite wisdom feeds us, whether a crazy man or the giggling food, a double bind to do this or do that, when either put s up deep into the belly of the cat, outwitted perpetually, having only this dark hole to protect us, as long as we can resist the scent of cheese.
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