Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe... Phoebe my love!

What could be more pleasant than to lie at your side, in the warm beams of the sun, in the sun room itself, listening so happily to your contented purr as birds and squirrels frolic and squabble outside?

And in the other room, the dark room where nary a beam doth fall - the fool, nibbling at kibble that you had no desire to eat, batting around a toy that you placed there merely as a decoy, as bait - a lure to draw him away so that you and I could enjoy the sun together and all alone.

But alas! You are so far away, down in the southern hinterlands where the nights are dark and sultry and I am here, in the north, where birds sing throughout the light of night, yet where even now the darkness is beginning to creep in, soon to dominate, to drive away the sun altogether, and all birds, too, save for the dark raven and the sky wandering, lone eagle that would just as soon swoop down and snatch an innocent cat away.

Alas, pretty as the former image is, this relationshop between you and I can never be.