Because I wanted to, I killed my cat. Not really because I wanted to, but my mother had been angry with me that day - before I did it - and I guess that her anger seeped into my blood. When you have angry blood swirling around in your brain, in your ears, and you look at a damned cat with its intoxicatingly serene stance and you wonder why in the world there has to be something so damned different from you and there’s a window nearby and you’re on the third floor, you kill your damed cat. Billiards. You take the cue in your hands and maybe it’s a bit hefty in the back but you don’t care at the time and maybe your stance is a bit off with your feet making an angle slightly bigger than ninety degrees. The table, you know, isn’t perfect, there are some dips but who takes the time to memorize them all and in the grand probabilistic scheme of things when you miss a shot because of a dip the next day that same dip is gonna help you out. So cue hits cue ball, cue ball hits seven, seven hits bumper, bumper, slides to a halt near the left side pocket without any hope of sinking the next turn. Causality begets dead cat.