Snake, Typewritten

We must move quietly. Stay low to the ground, man. Hands and knees are necessary, to be sure. Hunch over the keyboard, placed on the ground. Focus only on the keys, not the screen. A typewriter would be a more critically useful tool at the moment. Machine-gun punctuation.
*
Cats loom over the bed like, owls? Something that looms, menacingly. Little marble eyes reflecting my terror.
*
You’d think his fortress would be delicious, but it’s actually quite dangerous.
*
Now there are two of them, looming. Menacing me into the corner. I will escape under the bed. Freedom/Victory is only a crawl away. Now, if only I could fit. Need to be something like seven inches tall to get through these parts.
*
Pull the blanket down over you. Make your cave of bass sounds. Perhaps there are some Oreos in the refrigerator that need attending? Perhaps there are several tasty delinquents locked up in the refrigerator's iron-bar belly.
*
Slink away from the keyboard, or screen, rather. It’s can’t know you’re here. “Don’t mind my hands. They are just typing. They are alone in this caper; Special Forces acting in guerilla typeface."
*
I smell peanut butter. My god, what doesn’t smell like peanut butter? I am the peanut butter Keeper. You must go through me, should you want a spoonful or so.
*
I’m pretty sure various shadows are becoming cats. When I look they know to act like shadows, but when I don’t look they creep, menace. When they open their eyes and look at you, you know you’re in trouble. Acknowledgment, in this case, means instant death. No way out of it this time. Maybe if you had a horse.
*
I am positive there are Oreos that need to be eaten. What good do they do in their package? They are not fulfilling their destiny when they are not eaten. I must eat them, to complete them. To complete the circle. One needs purpose, and they are chock full of that. Now, time to make their purpose realized.
*
Forgot about those fans. Now we have battery power, though the lights are off. It makes it easier to avoid the fans.
*
It’s getting very loud now, but I don’t want to relinquish the volume. I’d have to fill its place, yeah? Might as well be with good volume, controlled volume. Maybe we should Dance? Or return to the refrigerator? But I’ve had so much chicken.
*
Will me phone vibrate with text messages proclaiming great love and willingness to copulate? God, I hear it vibrating, but it doesn’t move. I’m the one doing the vibrating, here.
*
I remembered where the peanut butter is, I’VE FOUND ITS CASTLE! I’m letting this happen.
*
How can I hope to explain, then? Relationships become too magnetic. Magnetic in the sense that it takes great effort to separate. I push my head into the side of the bed, expecting to make contact, but instead I keep leaning until I’ve become a snake eating its tail underwater.