Ben: Amid a host of volumes, fables, and tales there, back and hidden, was the slow string and chord plucking of a banjo; and where, if I had listened more closely, and with a keener ear, I would have been reminded of how, when on days things are right, the sky above is pink, and outlined with hints of violet paisley droplets. I thought about it, and then a cat weaved between where I was, arching its back and purring in a warm voice; its tail was in a curlycue, and where most of it was black, its tip looked as if, at one point, it was dipped in cream and then let dry. I bent and petted its back. The cat looked up; its eyes were wide. "You're nice," I said. It said nothing in return, and walked off. I followed and was met by a dead end. Perfect, I thought.