When
my mother
asks a pet
a question, or scolds
them for something they did
wrong, she replies for
them, in a voice
she makes up,
nasally and
pouting.
Now
I have
these kinds of
conversations, but not just
with pets, but also with
inanimate objects. The
objects are
quiet.
My
father, the
only lawyer I
have known to not
be rich, always had a
thoroughly messy desk, papers
and paperweights and
pens scattered
everywhere.
Normally
the picture
of my weirdly
organized yet perpetually cluttered
mind, this is the cleanest
my desk has ever
been, but chaos
still creeps
in.
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