Dead leopard in the garden, behind the bush, outside the patio room window. Sad. The yellow hairs are almost ginger, it's eyes filmed with blue opals. No visible marks. How did it get there? Is it dead? I went to pick it up, its consciousness was still leaking out, going to ground. As I was holding its head, it earthed through me; the muscles in my legs still feel tingly and taut with leopard thoughts.

My neck itches. There are soft bristles on my back. The world is flattening, becoming permeable to me, hedges and trees receding into themselves. Now, inside the house, it feels like part of me is trapped, like I've got my sleeve caught on something. I panic. As I step outside I breathe out, and it's a breath that goes on forever, as I relax and soak into the grass, into the air. I spread as far as I can smell, feeling the scent texture lying over the landscape. I lounge like a puddle. I focus by trotting my body over. The bristles are getting longer. Then they stand up.

Next thing I remember there's hair tickling the roof of my mouth, and there are sinews scraping between my bottom teeth. Tepid meat in my mouth, heavy like a second numb tongue, the weight of the leopard's head borne by my jaw, tugging my canines as it swings, lazy blood on my chin and in my nose. Gloopy. It crackles slightly as it dries. The sky is hot and blue on my naked back.