The Dog

I carry the cross through deserts and wine, my soul isn’t mine.

Confusion was meant to be archaic but it nevertheless demarked the limits of our territory.

The dog doesn’t bark in vain, he smokes, crosses its legs and then smokes again. A slightly neurotic dog, I would say.

Heavily neurotic! Insensitive to anything outside its own domain, as if completely turned inwards.

Inward looks don’t flame our spirit, the flame comes from the outside, as we exchange ideas mediated by smoke and spirituality.

My control of reality hurts, as if I were controlled myself.

I appreciated your thoughts even though they didn’t influence my appetite.

Distraction is a heavily destructive force, masses are destructive, as in a never ending spiral of dissatisfaction and frustration they blindly follow the mountain ignoring that they will be swallowed at the end of the day anyhow.

Who’s swallowing the masses? It’s the dog, whose grandfather is the tiger, and whose nephew is the spider.

The dog smokes, and waits for its prey.