the paper cat folds itself out of any book left open longer than a quarter of an hour. it prefers older books — the paper sits better, the folds remember. it has no thickness from the side; from above it appears in full, watching.
it sleeps between pages 84 and 85 of most novels. it eats nothing. it has been observed, when startled, to refold itself into a smaller cat and step into the gutter of the binding. in the library it is responsible for the sound that is not quite a draught.
signs of its passage are foxed corners, a faint crease across the cover, and the persistent feeling — when you set the book down — that you have forgotten to do something. it does not appear in catalogues.
— closed the book quickly. opened it again, slowly. it had not moved. it had not stayed either. — t.b.