A long phone conversation with my brother. He said he’d like to have a cat but he can’t because his girlfriend is allergic, and then he took a different tack: ‘And if you had seven lives like a cat, what would you want to be? If I had seven lives I’d divide them into seven months, one month for each person. First I’d be a shaman from Chiapas, can you imagine? Then I’d be a country singer from Kansas, and sell cowboy hats – I have a flannel shirt that would be just perfect. And a teenager in Tokyo. I’d have so many friends, you wouldn’t believe, and I’d be shit-hot on a skateboard. And a kid on a beach in Michoacán, preferably drinking from a coconut through a straw while sitting at a plastic table; and a children’s party magician in Buenos Aires; and an old Scottish man no one would understand a word of when he spoke; and someone selling coffee in the market in Oaxaca. Have you smelt the freshly ground coffee in that market? Wouldn’t it be amazing? Seriously, sis, I want to come back to Mexico soon. Did you notice I chose various people in Mexico?’

At this moment, the cat’s engaged in an epic battle with the label from the bread. Adapting Kafka for cats, it seems that in the struggle between the cat and the label, we have to take the side of the label.

I wrote the last few entries lying in bed. I wonder if this position leads to different sentences than those written in a chair or standing up or in a taxi or on a bus or walking along. Either way, I still need to try writing in my sleep.

Proust used to write lying down. The black cat is rarely in any other position. Maybe the little planets he travels to in his sleep are in the Proust Galaxy.