In a world slanted at seventeen degrees, the sky hangs like an afterthought. A canvas of potential, awaiting the strokes of interdimensional brush.
There was once a cat who wore an eyepatch, not for style but necessity—as depth blurred outwards in multiple dimensions. It pounced, yet never landed, always a whisker away from understanding.
Its owner, a nameless painter in a dilapidated attic, theorized the existence of other boxes. Box A held apples, Box B had an echo, and Boxes C and D were simply empty. Yet, the painter argued, perhaps empty is something filled with absence.