The Smitty runs behind the monolith and sneak-attacks it.
(This, the Smitty believes, will cause fear and trembling and general unrest in the monolith’s stonily-singular soul.)
He has jumped into the recycled newspaper box and has scratched the side of the box as though he is re-enacting childhood memories of a litter box.
“No, Yo: He’s re-enactifying childhood memories of that little box you make for the mamma cat when she’s going to have her kittens and the kittens stay in the box for a few days until they are strong enough to climb out of it.”
“Perhaps, Yo. Yet I believe this may hearken back to the proto-scratching first fisted in the womb.”
“You is quite possibly right, Yo.”
“What’s the Smitty digging for?”
“Memories, my dearest yo; memories of that first room.”
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