Cat people, no contest. We’re the chosen meat hosts to the sacred mind-worm that lives in cat shit, toxoplasma gondii, the parasite muse that rewires your neurons to see in 31 flavors of cat piss and infrared despair. It compels you to lie in the gutter for hours, knees marinating in city slime, waiting for golden hour so you can photograph the moment a sodium vapor lamp coughs to life in black and white, framed like it’s the fuckin Ark of the Covenant. We’ve stared into the eyes of God and God stared back, then batted a wine glass off the counter, and we’ve caught that motion with imperfect blur, the divine smear you can only catch at 1/30 shutter. We chase soul, grain, light leaks, death rattles in expired silver halide.
Dog people wander around with an iPhone 16 Pro Max or a Sony a6400 with a kit zoom, throwing a ball and mainlining dopamine like domesticated apes.
