dogs barking

Dogs Barking

He awoke at 6:30, allowing himself thirty minutes to adapt his figure to the societal standards that guarded from the evil hand of self-interpretation. How he had become such an integral part of the game had always eluded him.

Off to work at seven to arrive at eight the only thoughts placed within the span of erratic eye movement, unlike the seldom extravagant thinker, were of the traffic for later salty stale reference and implied perturbance.

He could never actually quote himself on thoughts for the years of forcibly pressing the fictitious and real into two separate molds they somehow had fused together. Perhaps this was the explanation of his brain squeezing migraines while he labored to enjoy the serenity of a Sunday paper. The remedies were there yet being a recovering naturalist he found a pleasure in their consistency.

Somehow the morning barking of dogs, on some level, eased, rather raised the pleasure of the migraine. The pleasure particularly embarrassed him for if those around him were to know this fact they would think him to be crazy.

Cool nighttime silence and morning mirrored each other in their heightened sense of justice to his soul. This did much to enlighten him and bring the two parts together so upon this cold winter morning when, as he headed out, the sun had not yet risen. The barking of dogs continued in his mind thus confirming in a practical sense the transformation within.

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