Here in the box the dog lays, pages ahead of him. To be put to sleep makes drama like a Sun that flows to somewhere else, not quite a Sun though. Imagine being read, not for money, just for knowing. The knowing of existing, likeness to our own. A solution could be easier said, you may not heal with a word like bread and don’t expect it. Expect only some drama, some knowing of life, a glimpse of excitement upon a darkness that would hold you flat like a bed. You have no other choice than to reason till death. Once housed and clothed you must eat, then work on something that eases the pain of the humourous witches of your longings.