I came back in the room, food in hand and I see a black cat. Black cat, watching the bed. Watching where I sleep. I blink. The cat becomes a chair, but I still see it as a cat, for a moment in my mind. An imprint, then it’s gone. Bast. Bast. Like Wadjet, like someone else, but this is not Tybi. Tybi! - just now, like Toby, my black cat’s name who died 9 years ago. But this is not Tybi. This is Pachon. This is not the 17th. This is the third. This is the third of the 9th. This is a pattern. This is a pattern where there isn’t a pattern there. There is just me here. Me, the chair and these unwritten things.