Today I am visited by white cat. It shows up outside on my deck and scratches at the screen door of my flat. I have no idea how it could have scaled the wall two floors. Perhaps it climbed a tree and strategically jumped from one branch to another, but something about it's lethargic yawn tells me it must have spontaneously appeared with no other possible explanation. It is a cat without ambition. I let it in and it nestles next to me immediately, and after it is comfortable it asks me a question. "Why have you created me?" I think about it for a moment. "I was afraid I was becoming too vulnerable, that my thoughts would be misinterpreted, projected. And I've been reading a lot of Murakami lately." "What does he have to do with anything?" For a moment I hesitate, realizing I am speaking to a cat, but what do I have to lose? "I think his writing style is a good way to understand myself. Something about teetering between fact and fiction reveals a greater truth. And I think it gives me the space to feel safe and express deeper thoughts..." "Ya, ya..." The cat nods sleepily. "You'll have to feed me, though. If you want to keep me around." "What do you like to eat?" The cat scratches it's chin and thinks. "Pastels." ![[15480990-5160-4872-B577-51B5C92321CF_1_102_a.jpeg]]