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Cats of habit
Cats of habit
A cat walks on the street outside. He walks the same route every day, just like the factory workers who also walk by every morning at the same time every day. And I sit here by the kitchen window, watching it all.

And them. I notice who walks with whom. I notice when one doesn't show up any more, and when a new face shows up. I don't know any of them, but I like to watch people as they walk by.

They don't look too happy, though. And when they come out in the evening, they resemble bitter and worn down factory workers, which is indeed what they seem to be. But I don't really know. Because I don't know them, I just know where they work. My thoughts are pure speculation and prejustice.

I don't even know if the cat is a he or a she.

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