The cat that could turn into an eagle had a bathtub on wheels that worked on candlepower. It would ride down the street with it, looking around at panoramas of human reproduction and monkeys playing chess with beagles.
Men without torsos would busk, playing musical instruments that mutated into collection hats. Marvels would present feats of impossibility in return for belief. Television screens showed eyes staring back at you.
When it reached the sea, the cat that could turn into an eagle would soar above the ocean, alighting on gingerbread ships for lunch, watching kid pirates fighting with cutlasses made out of chocolate. The sea would juggle islands, and if you looked well, you could see the ill mainland coughing out gobs of river.
In the evening, the cat that could turn into an eagle would collect its bathtub from the amusement park and ride downhill to go home for a light dinner of businessmen’s hearts washed down with actresses’ tears.
The bathtub would power down, turning the candles off slowly, and would go to sleep smacking its lips, anticipating the taste of fresh air burning in a wax flame.