The way of truth
Your dog, you write, likes watching you under the shower.
Your dog goes with you to the coast and you accept the fish
that he catches and you throw it back. The fish is
no longer the one lifted out of the sea and will
never be the same again, and neither am I, having
known you, still any good to myself. ‘I’m moving
towards an empty space coming out of
what wasn’t there and all my scales
cannot protect me.’ Your dog has no knowledge of
this sort of confusion. Parmenides (everything is
1 and indivisible, everything has always existed
and cannot be otherwise) appeals to your dog.
You send a photo of your dog, with his front paws on the
window sill he takes a look inside, his member stiff
as if standing for what he sees, which is
of course the case, thus does he ride
on what he thinks and is, has what I lack.
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