Statistically, beneath the surface of each whisker, lies a universe of untold fractions. Beyond the stems of silence and within the creased algebra of moments, there is a narrative— whispers forming equations, a symphony x squared on a quiet trapeze, swinging not by chance but insistence, grained patience finding a solace in the statistics of wonders.
Have you ever traced the path of a cat's gaze? It follows no rhyme, no reason except its own, winding around axles of fate until it finds a sunbeam, warm and perpendicular, where numbers dissolve like sandcastles decreed by the tide.
There's math in each melancholic pounce, a calculus of predation scribbled in shadowy margins, calculus indeed, but without derivation— just an integration of rest with the finest of whispers.
When the dusk arrives and silhouettes dictate the terms, watch as paths bifurcate into canvases of probabilistic reverie. The whiskers—mathematical, mystical—chart dominions unconcerned by present company. Have your own legends remembered roots, or other structures of believeable disbelief?