Here begins the tale of Amonymous Bloomsday, discovered among garbage cans behind Martello's Tower, abandoned, screaming and hungry. Molly, with her nightingale ways, swaddled him, brought him home to the Easter House, and began regimented feedings of emergency kitten milk.
Amonymous was quite strong from the beginning. His lungs were strong. His poops forceful and startling, though usually covert. It was his stretches, though, which were his first true sign of superpowers. Whenever stirred from sleep, Amonymous would reconstitute the cells of his body into a contorted pose, arms out, then up, then wrapped behind his head as his torso bent into a cooked shrimp mode. His legs, unswaddled, would jack knife, toes the size of half-digested breath mints pointing toward the East, yearning to travel. He'd squint his eyes shut tight and purse his lips to kiss the universe.
It was this stretchy state of consciousness, falling between the mist of sleep and the fog of feeding, that enabled Amonymous to receive his wisdom, like a Hamm radio tuned perfectly to a distant Mexican polka station. His first interrogatory was this: Do I end, or am I infinite? Amonymous' answer, slurring through the fresh synapses of his mind would have sounded like, "Yes," but it could more properly be translated as "Both."
While he was confident the he was, indeed, connected to the entirety of existence, he also deduced that, since he could not reach that frog dangling inches above his face, nor control the behavior of the silly man in sunglasses who arrived in his line of vision almost as frequently as Molly, his abilities most definitely had parameters.
And then, there was that Molly, near constant fixture of his awareness, so close to him that he did, in that first month or so, perceive her as himself. But he soon came to suspect that, while he felt he was once "one" with her, that now, they were different, and she was her and he was him. This realization was tinged with sorrow. But that sorrow was soon supplanted by the sorrow of hunger or the sorrow of shit 'n piss soup cooling in his diapers, no one is really sure which.
Amonymous was quite strong from the beginning. His lungs were strong. His poops forceful and startling, though usually covert. It was his stretches, though, which were his first true sign of superpowers. Whenever stirred from sleep, Amonymous would reconstitute the cells of his body into a contorted pose, arms out, then up, then wrapped behind his head as his torso bent into a cooked shrimp mode. His legs, unswaddled, would jack knife, toes the size of half-digested breath mints pointing toward the East, yearning to travel. He'd squint his eyes shut tight and purse his lips to kiss the universe.
It was this stretchy state of consciousness, falling between the mist of sleep and the fog of feeding, that enabled Amonymous to receive his wisdom, like a Hamm radio tuned perfectly to a distant Mexican polka station. His first interrogatory was this: Do I end, or am I infinite? Amonymous' answer, slurring through the fresh synapses of his mind would have sounded like, "Yes," but it could more properly be translated as "Both."
While he was confident the he was, indeed, connected to the entirety of existence, he also deduced that, since he could not reach that frog dangling inches above his face, nor control the behavior of the silly man in sunglasses who arrived in his line of vision almost as frequently as Molly, his abilities most definitely had parameters.
And then, there was that Molly, near constant fixture of his awareness, so close to him that he did, in that first month or so, perceive her as himself. But he soon came to suspect that, while he felt he was once "one" with her, that now, they were different, and she was her and he was him. This realization was tinged with sorrow. But that sorrow was soon supplanted by the sorrow of hunger or the sorrow of shit 'n piss soup cooling in his diapers, no one is really sure which.