The cat, which may be the incarnation of a god who creates and destroys worlds, drags itself there against your leg. Its hair yokes at your skin.
Its tale betrays its mysterious nature. It whips at the air like a conductor's rod in the rhythm of its clockwork when measuring the possibilities of a room. It taps you on the shoulder as its owner sits on the windowsill, by all appearances distracted.
As such things go, she has been violated by a mortal, and now carries his swelling brood until her kittens crawl out to repopulate the world with feline grace. Like when she dreamt the story of mankind, like when drops of her milk became the stars.
We love our cruel boys.