Every century redraws the same portrait: one woman, one cat, one shared opinion of everybody else. The old trials called the cats familiars; the witches called them colleagues; the cats have never commented, which is a comment. This one is drawn like the great art-nouveau posters — the whiplash frame, the candlelight, the face that saw your small talk coming from across the veil — because if you're going to announce a policy, announce it beautifully. And the policy is ancient, tested, and jointly held: people, as a category, are a lot. It isn't misanthropy; it's quality control. The cat conducted the review. Everyone failed. The crescent on her brow is the moon. The look on the cat's face is the mood. Both are permanent.
Parody. Fan-made. Not affiliated with, endorsed by, or remotely approved of by any actual band. NOT AVAILABLE IN ANY STORE.