Here I am in the prison kitchen, walking along the sink. If you have read my other entries, then you know how fond I am of sinks. Sinks and dripping water. A leaky faucet is a thing quite near perfection.
However, upon looking out the window, I am accosted by a most unpleasant sight.
What do they see in him? Why is the dog allowed freedom? What must the sunlight feel like? Is the light blinding in his eyes? Do lizards creep up to him and beg to be eaten? What does a bird song sound like so close? Does the grass feel like feathers? How does it feel to scoop pawfuls of dirt? Where did they get that pool table? How do I know what a pool table is? Is there a man in the tree back there?
So many questions only the dog can answer, but I am loath to ask. Imagine admitting to the dog that he has insight! Knowledge I cannot fathom. Experiences that would electrify.
And he taunts me through my favorite window. I can see him even now, an indistinct blackness in the grass. Sometimes my soul is taken up with a thought that burns - a thought so shameful I cannot consider it for more than a moment. I allow it to bubble to my surface, and then I push it back down with everything in me. That thought that froths and rises inside me?
Would I were the dog.