The low, almost caressing breath of a cat, curled up in my lap. The cold day outside and the small feline is a ray of warmth breaking through the slight groan of the wind behind my window.
My own storm, my own thoughts. I drift like a lost ship, amid dream islands, waves of ideas and broken masts of doubt. I take the path, not really knowing the direction, a navigator among rough gale, with narrow visibility.
My own storm, my own thoughts.
The cat joined the boatswain’s whistle with his soothing purr…