Come home, little Physarum!

I used to have a pet slime mold, but it ran away.

I still remember each morning being greeted by my pet slime mold (well, not really greeted because it didn't have a mouth). I can still see its visage (well, not really visage, but sometimes if you squinted you could make out the image of the Madonna, or other times it looked more like a cheese sandwich). In the evenings, it would be gone, but it would always be there the next morning, playing hide-and-seek among the sunflowers, the dawn light glistening off my slimy friend's velvety skin (well, not really skin, but more like congealed ooze).

I had sought my little plasmoidal friend's advice on the Phrasenator Project—and it was always willing to listen (well, I'm sure it would have listened if it had ears). I should have given it credit for helping with the software: the code did sort of resemble the amorphous structure of a slime mold.

I considered a leash, but thought it would be wrong to chain a wild slime mold (plus there was the issue of not having a neck). In any case, I miss our frolicking in the flowers (well, not really frolicking), and our long leisurely walks (well, it didn't really walk because it didn't have legs, but it did move, albeit very very slowly).

If you love something, let it go. Set it free. If it comes back, it is yours. If it doesn't, it never was.

Alas! Farewell, my little Myxomycetes.