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.