The sky scars and folds into a brilliant shimmer. A billion suns reflect and refract a light that is older than Father Time, yet new to the human eye. At the far end of Route 66 resides a black cat. He sits in meditation–contemplating life and the purpose of his existence. He is obviously more than an aged kitten but, to a stranger in the shadows, it would look nothing more than a statuesque feline looking to the stars. He is waiting—waiting for his Doctor. The Tardis rips through the scar and tumbles through the atmos catching the black cat’s eyes. They twinkle in response. The telephone poles wax and wane in defiance, but eventually they find their symmetry as the blue call box winks out of existence to a time only known to the Doctor and the black cat. The black cat smiles but, for you and I, all we see are the shoulders of a small furry mammal, the abnormal straightness of man-made totems, and a scar in the sky.