Roadkill

On monday the unlucky alley cat had just been run over by a car. I saw it through the windshield of my car, early in the morning, as I turned left to join a three-laned avenue, the poor thing dead on the tarmac. Day after day the little dead body of the cat has turned increasingly flatter to almost become part of the asphalt. Today, finally friday, the carcass is barely a thin dark indefinite layer the colour of the road. Since monday every time I've turned left on that curve my eyes haven't failed to see the dead animal, the only apparent feature standing out from the monotone background of the road. Since monday I have followed the evolution of the remains of the roadkill cat, its slow transformation into some amorphous flat mix of flesh and bones. Among the infinite variants of ugliness life may provide, I have been presented this week with this most depressing regular sight every single daybreak, often oddly synchronized with the occasional flawless sunrise.