There is a theory, one whispered in the neon glow of midnight diners, scribbled into the margins of forgotten books, and transmitted in static-laden radio waves from places unknown, that cats are, in fact, the very center of the universe.

Not in the sense of celestial mechanics or astrophysical equations (though if you ask a cat, they'd tell you Einstein was an amateur and Newton merely discovered what they had long since mastered: gravity as a mere suggestion). No, this is something far older, far stranger, a law woven into the fabric of existence itself. Scientists, mystics, and those who know better refer to it as The Feline Singularity Hypothesis, the idea that, at the very core of existence, all matter and consciousness inevitably spiral toward feline dominion. Every equation, every dream, every distant pulse of a dying star ultimately converges into one undeniable truth: The cat is, and always has been, the gravitational nexus of all things.

Picture it: A neon-soaked horizon. A grid stretching into the void, marked not by longitude or latitude but by the invisible paw prints of the unseen. Planets hover in the black, haloed in rings of electric pink. And there, gazing from the abyss with eyes like verdant galaxies, is the cat, the observer, the navigator, the keeper of secrets older than the stars.

Have you ever watched a cat watching you? The way they remain still, calculating, their gaze resting just beyond your own understanding? They are not staring at you. They are staring through you, into something beyond. A cosmic ledger where all events are accounted for, all actions weighed.

And yet, they remain indifferent. That is the most terrifying part.

A cat does not beg the universe for meaning. It simply exists, in perpetual balance between the known and the unknowable. It does not rush, because time bends for it. It does not worry, because reality conforms to its whims.

To serve a cat is to be granted a sliver of this understanding, a flickering candle in an otherwise darkened room. You may feed them, pet them, build temples in their name (or at the very least, clear a shelf so they may sit upon it like the idol they are), but know this: your devotion changes nothing.

You are but an atom in their cosmos, an extra in their grand narrative.

And yet… and yet… for a fleeting moment, when they press their head against your palm or curl into the curve of your body, you are at the center of their universe, too.

Or perhaps that’s just another trick, another layer of the great illusion.

Regardless, the truth remains: The cat is the axis upon which all things turn. Everything else is just background noise.

So feed them. Worship them. Pay your dues.

And remember—when the last star burns out, when the final echoes of creation fade into the infinite silence, there will be one thing left, floating serenely in the void:

A cat, watching.

Waiting.

Knowing.