This animal is called Sylax. It breathes damp, cool air while it clings to things in the room. Like, the barriers separating panes of glass in a window, or the back of a stereo system. It doesn’t make the kind of noise that makes you look around to notice where it might be. But it can be very loud. It thinks in sirens, and also in large, abstract, edgeless feelings, like cloud formations.
We don’t know if Sylax is the name of this one, or the breed. This one has a long tail. We imagine it has gills. We imagine it dreams of small feasts, of wars or aliens or large flocks of birds on the horizons. Of smoke. Of trajectories through the air. We imagine lots of things. This animal just clings and breathes and warms up different corners of the room, so you can’t really tell whether you want to turn the heat on or not.
Travel cases elude it, but whenever we’re sure we remember where it was, it isn’t there anymore. Don’t worry; if you leave home, you can still hear them most everywhere. Warped, like wind through old wood or lighthouse glass. But the same animal. Gripping through splayed bones and breathing, humming things that seep and soak and corrode and lubricate.