A cat listens to strong winds from inside a cave.
It has never known human hands.
The sun is setting outside of any screens.
The animal feels a sort of contentedness.
(The prey has been consumed.)
Sky is a conflagration and knows nothing.
Cat faces conflagration and knows.
(The face is a sort of conflagration.)
This knowing is a way of being.
Inhuman, as humans are inhuman.
Time is permutations and nothing more.
But there must be a matrix.
The cave serves the cat as a sort of second self.
There are extensions of mind, which is place.
No one in Europe has invented a door yet.
This is the closest thing to a door.
I mean this poem, this cipher.