Still we're strangers in her house and so she keeps one eye open. I've seen her pounce. I've seen her back arched ferocious and her back arched with desire to be touched. I've heard her purr. I've heard her hiss.
Every story is an old story. There is the world of the individual constructed of a string of moments. Every moment is new. A moment turned into a story is a word is an attempt to control and contain to capture to take prisoner to mind. We mind we story. We build roads between points and they're always two-way, taking us back and forth, back and forth.
There's the world of culture the world of events. We can agree on that and that world is always full of horrors. Only a fool would argue. It never ends. One point to the next, atrocity to nightmare. This was a period of history where the young believed history might end, that is the old history of horror and warfare. We would make history anew. It would be about peace and love.

All we didn't see all we didn't know in that cat's eye.

Stroke her fur. Listen to the deep rumble.