There was a picture on the wall of a little girl turning a page of a book that seemed heavier than she was. Below the picture there was a table with shreds of important looking paper and blots of poetry-filled ink. This starts like an episode worth remembering, like a moment a photographer would like to capture for it had the air of the antique and the elegance of the sublime.
The winterlessness of the summer and the twilightlessness of the evening made it easier to long for an event, something out of the ordinary. The thing about boredom is that it makes one unavoidably curious. And curiosity, as we all know, kills the cat. The cat did die, in spite of the nine life myth.
John- no, none of the famous one(s)- returned home to find the cat dead. It has always been dead. It is a picture of a dead cat for chrissake. Why would he have a picture of a dead cat hanging on his living room wall? Well, his dead almost-girlfriend-whom-he-was-still-in-love-with loved cats and he had never forgiven her for dying. So it goes . Anyone else would have at least waited till they had gotten down to the act so he would lose probably the only chance at losing his virginity. That bitch. It’s no fun being a 37 year old balding virgin who doesn’t have the nerd-genius tag to use as an excuse for his ‘condition’.
Coming back to the dead cat, it was probably John’s twisted sense of poetry or humour, whatever you would like to call it, or maybe the cute shopping assistant at the bookstore that John to buy the picture. Not that it matters. What matters is why would the bookstore have a big poster of a dead cat for sale? Now that is twisted. So the cat is dead and the dead cat is photogenic- yes, the cruel universe!- and John would certainly prefer to have its picture hanging on his wall rather than his own miserable self’s.
The thing about boredom is that it makes one unavoidably curious and although the winterlessness of the summer and the twilightlessness of the evening made it easier to long for an event, something out of the ordinary. Nothing really happened. No one came, not even Godot. All that one could say, even with the underlying curiosity and longing for something extraordinary, was that everything was hopelessly ordinary.