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Soft, gentle fur and I hope I write this legibly when I’m ninety. Will I make it to ninety?
My cat insists and purrs with comfort as I think of growing old. It’s too long, breath isn’t meant to hold this many memories, yours and strangers’. I grumble.
Does she dream like me? Would I purr if I slept soundly like her, with so very few needs during the hours of wake.
She watches me often, as if she knows, smirks and goes back to sleep leaving me an envious creature.
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