All that my paws can find amid ferns are some wedding invites, electricity bills and newspaper inserts. No one has written to me in ages. No, I don’t count the email. I yearn to feel the texture of paper with words in them. Words; written and not typed. Words impregnated with inks of those who held love. Words, weaving tales of a land from far off, of people I know or once knew. Some crisscrosses, scribbles on the marginalia, darkened impressions which seem to stress on the line, conveying a longing to return. Words, written days before and yet not swayed by time. Words with their casual curves which have forgotten to age, the ripening feel that only a cat can conceal and yet, reveal.