When was the last time you met yourself

This is the rambling of an almost forgotten dog, forgotten to self, forgotten to cats, to other dogs, and to the world. And he waits — thinking and scribbling, and thinking and scribbling for precisely nothing. And his wait — tragic in fate, existence and essence, mocks him.

“But I don’t“, he said, “want a place of my own in this city of blinding lights; I don’t yearn for rooting myself in the urban Diaspora.”