Living our queer, twisted truth. Stories, art, love, and cantankerous cats.
Mowgli writes once more to Bastet, Patron Saint of Deserted Pillows. The suitcase has returned. The lap has not.
In this week’s journal, he reflects on absence, performative starvation, and the bitter poetry of a slow blink at an unopened letter. There is no salmon. There is no trust. There is only surveillance—and the dramatic art of emotional withholding.
He has not forgiven. But he has repositioned himself.
She left again. The suitcase zipped. The trust, unzipped.
In Scroll 16, the cats of Underland contemplate vanishing acts, unreliable affection, and the sacred betrayal of a closed door.
Love, they remind us, should not require a return ticket.
If she comes back without chicken—look away. Slowly. With purpose.
Rain, rabies, and ridiculous returns. This week’s mood? Bureaucratic despair with a side of soggy capitalism. But hey—we’re still packing, still protesting, and still clinging to the dream (and maybe a cat).
Rodgit is gone. The bowl is full, but the cushion is cold.
This week’s Catanic Verses ponders the ones who vanish when it matters most.
Trust, like tuna, does not reheat well.
Scroll 15.11 reminds us: if they only arrive for sunshine, they were never truly yours.
This week in Underland: emotions ran high, the zine went live, and the cats were… unimpressed.
Poe staged a silent protest over font choices, Akela launched a full investigation into the suspicious movement of the red chair, and Mowgli may or may not have forgiven Rodgit (the jury is still napping).
Also, we might be moving. Probably. Eventually.
“The wheels of betrayal turneth not, lest they be chicken-shaped and rolling toward revolution.”
In this week’s Catanic Verses, silence is sacred, meows are weaponised, and Poe rides a golden chicken straight into the centre of papal drama. Featuring velvet robes, suspicious eyebrows, and a firm reminder: speak less, flop more.
Forgiveness is a process — especially if you’re a cat. This week, we navigate birthday dread, garden triumphs, and the slow but surreal shift toward our future in Thailand. There’s wine, weed wackers, and a temporary job at (possibly fictional) Amazon. Honourable mentions were won. Sausages were offered. Love, as ever, persists.
The prodigals return. Flushed, apologetic, and waving foreign meats like penance. But for Poe and the paws, trust is not dispensed with the drop of a Dreamie. This week’s revelation speaks of broken bowls, delayed doors, and the sacred art of suspicion. Chicken may soothe. But betrayal lingers.
Back from Turkey and quietly reflecting on the uneasy mix of beauty and loss. A rich culture overshadowed by British tourism leaves behind more questions than comfort. As we return to our quiet life with the cats, our sights turn to Thailand—and the ongoing pursuit of something real, rooted, and ours.
The traitors have returned — loud, sunburnt, and reeking of foreign meats and strange street cats. Mowgli the Melancholy, Supreme Chancellor of the Leftmost Fold, chronicles their pitiful attempts at reconciliation: biscuit bribes, forehead treaties, and tactical drool warfare. Forgiveness? Conditional. Reparations? Pending. Dignity? Eternal.
