November Melancholic Fairytale
The cat gazes through the air, and the cat sees: there is a labyrinth in every shadow, and something multocular lives in that labyrinth; in the dark it walks the streets, pulping people.
The cat's eyes are always in the shadow, so the cat can see; where the light does not go, there the cat does.
In every expectation of snow there lives the cat, and it is telling its tale, droningly, aloofly.
When the dark people swarm in the dark November streets, the cat rubs against their legs, leaving wisps of its tale on them. The cat watches the bus arrival, and in the engine's rumble it can hear the wistful singing of ten minds, trapped inside: about salaries and public utilities those minds are singing, about their own death; and the sound of singing is screwing into the slightly freezing air.
And the cat starts singing too, not knowing their words, counting shadows, words and seconds.
On the dry ground there lives a rustling deity, invisible for human eyes.
'Shhhhhwwwrrrrrrshhhhhhzzzssss', says the deity when the cat notices it and beats it with its strong paw. 'Leave me alone, for I am crawling to do my job.'
'No I won't', says the cat. 'I am the major one in this land.'
'I am November', says the deity. 'I am killing the green. This is the course of nature.'
'I am cat', says the cat. 'I don't want them to carol death with every breath they make. It is all your fault.'
And they begin struggling, and a human observes the cat fighting its own shadow, what a silly cat!..
The cat loses.
The cat's eyes are always sad, because the cat knows more, than a human does; the cat's mind is covered with ash of burnt leaves.
And when the first snow starts falling, the cat knows of its deceit - and the cat never believes it.