The only true unknown is death. All fears have death at its center.
My lens is sharply focused on a world outside of a mind filled with conditioned thoughts and responses. I do not exist as anything other than what I see. There are no lungs expanding with polluted air. There are no hips swaying seductively at the sight of a beautiful man.
I am mesmerized by a landscape I usually ignore, in favor of romantic self-hatred.
Frankie is ill, and I attempt to heal him with magical thoughts. I go over his soft fur, with a gentleness I do not practice often. There are light workers out there, they say. I am not one of them. But he is the only living being I have formed an attachment to, that has nothing to do with addiction, and I will not lose him without a fight. The queen of the underworld needs her hound.