It's a bit tight in here. And dark, not that I mind that, and warm, very warm. It's always damp and pulsing and sometimes I get annoyed with it and try not to touch the walls, try not to let the pulse pulse its way through me (it really is too tight in here).
But I know how to make myself small. When I get tired of the jostling and convulsing walls I curl up, tuck all my loose ends in, and sink into the hollow at the bottom of my space. It's a good place to be when things start moving fast, and when adrenaline kicks in. I don't like the cold-metal-blood-rushing taste of it. So I sink down and block the entrance of the hollow with my snail-shell-curved back. I like to think of myself as a snail sometimes because I also have a shell. It isn't as pretty, but it's far more clever.
Time touches me in strange ways. I do my best to keep it out but it gets in anyway, seeping through the pores, I think, and it leaves splotches all over my nice clean walls. Inconsiderate, as though tickling my loose flaps of substance and bogging me down isn't bad enough.
Besides muttering at the time and resting in my hollow there isn't much to do. Except one thing, my special thing.
There are two round windows at the top of my space and sometimes, when I get too curious or too bored or too fed up, I clamp my paw-hands around the jawbone and stand on my tiptoes and look out-- just a little-- very quickly-- because even snail-things like to see the sun sometimes.
