Cats, Summer, and Future

Today, I needed some inspiration. And when this happens, I go home, I mean, I read science fiction.

I re-opened Heinlein's "The Door into Summer" - and once again realised that I am anything but a separate being. Of course, I read it when I was young, of course, I am longing for an eternal summer.
"...that unpleasant white stuff" - do I ever call snow anything else?
Of course, I make cats their own doors and, of course, they still bully me into opening mines. How predictable...
Sometimes, I read a novel and my life painfully re-appears in front of my eyes: predicted by someone who never knew me. Or - wait, am I just their imagination?

Image stolen from "Simon's Cat" (TM)