A dog, a doctor and a seven mile fidelity

I’m supposed to be here he thought. The notations are fluid. The canvass is calling and the truth of it is that he is not daring himself to the confidence. It just appeared and it is a truthful confidence. What is the slightest trickle of cold air compared to the hooded knit blanket of authenticity.

He isn’t holding onto the handles or the safety bar. There isn’t an imagined existence as he is standing full length. He is long.

Where are smiles pulled from? He is responding, pouring himself into those receptors. They haven’t burned this way, and this is something outside making a man’s march to his inside. So he finds himself motivated. Maybe feeling himself up and down, his mind a new toy, his thoughts like ripped silk. Torn and beautiful. Where are smiles grown? Tell me about yourself he thinks and types with voice to text.

He will collect the experience like a collector of rare things. Hairless now, long in the mirror. He is collecting himself and the doctor may enter.

Art credit: Matador, 1970, Pablo Picasso oil, canvas