At the store, checking for the turkey chunks, having the most indigo thoughts alone.

I can’t move to Topanga today, because innocent felines would suffer from my absence.

I can’t self-delete either and for the same reason.

I refilled the water jug and yes, there was a single five-dollar piece of bird.

Not as pretty as the ones in the European butcher shops, but it didn’t hurt my eyes the way they do, with the same burning sensation as the pointless and unwanted tax advice.

I paid for it and took it out to the RME and sat down in the bucket seat.

A hundred feet away there was a parked and empty Mustang.

On the small triangle of window on the rear driver’s side, there was a message waiting.

It read: Witchy Woman.

I don’t know who drives the Mustang

I don’t know why she’d put that message out into the world …

Or have any idea what her own conception of witchy might be.

But while I’m trapped here by my own vestigial goodness and wrongness

I will study on it.