[ EU ] You are an assassin sent to kill Ash Ketchum and his Pikachu , what is your method and how did it go down ?

I arrived in this place around two-o'clock this morning. At the time, Orion's belt was still sitting well above the meridian -- a sight which always invokes in me just as much elation as viewing any Rembrandt or Cézanne. As I always tell my friends and family, mother nature really is the greatest of painters and us humans will never quite match her finesse. Still, I think the attempt, the struggle, makes art a noble endeavor. Sometimes, I like to consider myself an artist, but I think that's perhaps too liberal a use of the term. In truth, I am a mere philosopher. 
 
 In this very moment, I would describe my emotional state as a cool mixture of sensuality, anxiety, low-running agitation, and, most of all, a motherly affection. The interior around me is sparsely decorated. Some might disregard this as a symptom of poverty, but I believe the décor reflects a mind honed to the abstract. The lack of paintings or art of any kind gifting to the house an understated, warm, even familial appeal. 
 
 As the face in the mirror looks around his dwellings and then back into my eyes, I detect in his stretched expression the many notches of history left to him by his mother. I feel no sense of shame in admitting this: in my grammar school years, I was a most studious student of the Austrian geneticist and monk, Gregor Mendel. I've read Mendel's paper *Versuche über Pflanzenhybriden* countless times before. In both translation and original German ( the latter being more true to the word, in the strictest sense ). And I believe Mendel's discoveries are direct proof that real genius is universal. So although I may sound conceited, I think I'm correct when I say that I've learned enough from my forefathers to judge that the boy really does have his mother's nose. 
 
 Interrupting my prior thoughts, a light breeze coming through the window makes the boy's cheeks flutter against my own. I am reminded of one fact and one question. 
 
 The fact, signaled by the high squeal of the wind, is this: the boy and mother both had wonderful voices somewhere in the contralto range. I think their performances could easily be compared to the late Eunice Albert's performance in *La fanciulla del West*, or, if you want to get contemporary, Lisa Gerdad's latest works with Hans Zimmer. Although mother and son were found lacking in terms of technical flourishes, and, I will admit, their vocal ranges left something be to desired, I think both flaws were more than ironed out by their conviction and their smooth, sonorous tones. The pair sang in a way that seemed unbridled by any of today's modern burdens. Playstations and Nintendos, who needs them. I think if the boy had been given time to mature, he would have quite surely settled on a low tenor or high baritone; either of which would have made him a superb fit for the part of Ramiro in *L'heure espagnole*, one of my all time favourite pieces from the late French impressionist Ravel. 
 
 As for the question, I am still this very moment left with the consideration of what to do regarding this rat sleeping at my feet. On the one hand, Summer can only last so much longer and my current pair of mittens are showing signs of age. But on the other hand -- it's true -- I get lonely sometimes; and I think, perhaps through the careful use of this image of his past owner, I might be able to attain the vermin's affection. I do n't know. But I do so very much hate seeing things go needlessly to waste. I like to think many of the world's issues would be resolved if we all just buckled down and put in a little more effort. Appreciating what we have, rather than constantly reaching for something new. It's such a futile exercise. My friends may call my frugality a character flaw, but, regardless of their sentiments, I do think there is a genuine grain of truth somewhere in the old phrase, `` Waste not. Want not.'' 

