from Dogsmind

But the lieu was not a bathroom. Faced, I entered negotiations with distance, set far clip plane to maximum. Mallworlds, their greatgrand parkinglots, held no matchstick to this innerspace, a long ribbed chamberhall extending. And whatfar wasnear, allwas always everapproaching. And cold, this is where the cold, amalgam of dread and boredom. Here there is no sunmoonlight in the evening, there is all there empty, unfurnaced figure-eight bathroom wherein certain certain memories are stored that remain indifferent to the embarrassments of time. Meadow of greenblack flowers, no god at any of the no-ends. Chessarchitectured, and Ibid in the cold-cluttered center, wired wavelets in cranial garlands all around him, falling all around him, his woof and brindle gestalt, whatever coronachs still held there had long been halled and him-sung. Found the unwired scree of skinfur behind his ear and scratched hymn. Framerate fell, system wobbled, as a backleg kicked. Impulse: scratch at what's being scratched. Houndforth the pleasurecenter. Held out potatochip to hymn but, so ponderous were him's fiberoptic vines that move his hymnhead he couldn't. All of it stunk of songtiredness, and along the perimeter of the unwired square were numberletters. Bloodful and ready he waited, statically dynamic, his sinewflanks rippling like fivefold sunflowerfield. Already they were grahaming in the breastlaps of daycare, wondering about my cellphone carrier, is my childhood movable, the matrix of cold hallways gently swaying, hateful, the insidewinter scene around me an amalgam of aural that spat out ever-not-changing and ever-unsurprising semes of hymn's complex pipings. Or, well, I piped.

*

I softly decided that it was something in which the beginning of all things was explained, and knew I needed to pull my dead pants on. On the otherside of chiasmus now, my health became not better. I need to calm up, I said to Ibid, whose pendent freon stars did quicken in agitation. And the threefifthsdead specimen of Canis familiaris detached from his underlip some hexagonal crystals of water before he spoke, quite overfamiliarly: I am nothing without input. Frequencies of bark, ark of ordnance. Color, again, cries.