. . . world. It is a way I have of driving off the jimjams . . . Whenever I find myself growing grim about the whiskers; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses . . . it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically scratching people's skins off - then, I account it high time to get some catnip as soon as I can.
With apologies to . . . can you guess? The Human took a whole course on this writer in college . . . you know, back when she still had brain cells and all.