They say a black cat passing you by is bad luck.
I think that's discriminatory. I should not be judged for my color. Black cats did not choose to have black fur. Nor did the number 13 choose to be a subject of fear.
Yet, I am homeless. Such is the reality of life. The light winds and the leaves fly on me. Autumn is here.
My own dark complexion reflects on the puddle as I walk outside the park, fireflies overhead. Or were those stars?
Lamplights of the neighborhood shine, for the evening is nigh.
Does a tree falling in the forest make a sound if no one is there to hear it?
I take a left at the garden. Some construction is blocking the sidewalk. Gingerly, I step on the road.
A drunken car whizzes past. It flungs me to the street. It misses me barely.
I close my eyes as I lay down. I jump out, on high alert.
As my vision dims, I see myself like a ghost look down. I look on my lifeless body, as if it was a phantom.
I meow no more. I meow.
The God of Heaven observes me, collapsing the wave functions. He chooses what universe goes on.
I am Schrodinger's cat.
My God is the Judge of the quick and the dead.
