Gingy, do not move. You are my purring paperweight. It is nine thirty four and all I can hear are the clocks. I stroke your head as my love rolls over. Your eyes say 'steady' as the bed rocks and the covers are tugged. I stroke the back of your head and your ears twitch. You purr and I am grateful, I cannot remember the last time I was so clear headed at the start of a weekend. You are my totem. I will use you to anchor myself in what others may do. Whilst you are here I can lie to my self. You are my excuse to assume a position of leisure when all my instincts usually say is work. Achieve. Create... Get up. Do stuff. Be prolific. Death awaits and life is always ticking and tocking. But I stretched. And you turned around and jumped off.