TOAD

It is not, immideately clear, what has been the causative requisite of my contentious rapport, or the volatile discontentment, which I have, with the self. My envisagement has not met the volitional alignment, of tethered conduct, and I cannot presently subdue it into an anchor of pleasant rumination. One anxiety envelops the next, and the margins of context, remain assailable to usurping intrusion. The desultory leisures of solivagant adventure, the whimsical occupants of interpersonal trade, have all been to no avail. I have however, found a redundant, albeit pleasurable extraction, from the picturesque scene of my bedroom window. I have designated it, as 'redundant' as a more moderate expression of observed ritualism; a personal apology of caprice despite the otherwise ordained experience itself. Perhaps the chemistry of inscrutable mesmerism, has obscured me from the rather mundane arrangements of the scene, and my eyes deceive me. This morning I have seen something strange, in the lush evergreen of the summer yield. It is a woman and a little girl, travelling until at length, the woman seems to subdue the girl into stationary abeyance with a kiss on the forehead before departing alone. The little girl seems to take interest in my abode, and slowly saunters towards it oblivious of what I fancy to be a bohemoth toad-like mammal, clamping, behind her. Upon noticing its presence, she raptures into an unbridled sprint until, she leaps onto my window, and drops a corrugated paper into my precinct. It feels like the lapse of a strange dream, for presently there is nothing, of any novelty in the outdoors, and all that remains is that paper. It has a drawing. It is a scribble of the grotesque toad, in a woodlot.