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Dog collar

June 18, 2013

Still art – shades of sepia and beige in adagio, twisting and springing to an inexplicable rhythm, here clashing in sharp lines, soldiers at war, and there melding into supple contours. And slowly, an image emerges – a man of countless summers, bent and wrinkled with age, skin a few sizes too large for him now hanging as an undulating terrain of memories, uses one arm to support himself on the too-low cane lounger and with the other, reaches out to empty space beside his feet, his searching fingers splayed futilely. A few inches away lies an old dog collar – a murky coffee shade, must be leather I think and instantly smell the sharp acid tang of musty leather. I hear his toothless chatter, like the rustling of leaves underfoot, and inhale the waves of despair billowing off him – he has just remembered. Memory is a treacherous thing indeed…

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