With your eyes closed, you'd never know you were in any danger. Everything seemed completely normal. You'd hear the sound of 3 ticking clocks at varied distances. You'd catch the scent of moth balls and synthetic gardenia with a side of urine. A feeling of tepid peace would surround you. You wouldn't know you were in trouble until you heard the words, 'Let me show you my cat pictures'. You've wandered into Ethel's room and now you're fucked! Ethel loved to show off her cat pictures. Every cat had a special name and a unique story. Oscar loved to cuddle on laps. Mister Pickles would nibble your fingers. Bubbles peed in the corners. Blinky climbed the curtains. Lord Rascal could jump straight up. The list went on and on. But Ethel never owned any cats. She was severely allergic. All those pictures were cut out from decades of magazines and newspapers. Some images weren't even of cats. Not that it mattered. By now, you'd be so bored that you're wishing for death. Any manner of death. Just some way to end this. But Ethel would keep going, and you'll be in a wormhole of infinite monotony! This is your only warning. Don't ever go into Ethel's room. email: [email protected] web: www.michaeloster.com