In the reconstructed boneyard dog, though the eyes are blueberry fat and the fur is heartened with sunlight’s touch, there lingers the echo of a deeper mirror, a darker soul, a flatter fall down space’s drafty well, a harder hit. And that is why, when you reach out your hand to the creature that has been given another chance to live in the light, you must not be surprised if it cringes – for just a micro-moment – at the shadow of your fingers. In the absence of darkness, all crooked and transient objects look similarly disparate; it is confusing to the soul in the presence of echoes, when the explosion that spurned them is gone and the shrapnel turns to flowers in the wicked lavender light. So do not curse the dog for whining to be put back in its chains. Give it silence with its nightingales. And wait, for every death has a half-life and a half-life and again…


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