The cat didn't have anything to say. Laughing over the plight of the poor frozen BIS students. Beautiful sky, dry leaves, pigeons flying and perching, perhaps roosting. Why am I always looking up at the sky for these?
I wonder, still, about that little blue box on the bookshelf. He hustled me on, fiercely instructing me to not pry further; my eyebrows still asked. Drawing him out gently, sharing my stories, begging his advice. This thing means a lot to me; would you hear it, love?