9.29

The dog is looking at me, I think, but can't see me. Not blind from cataracts or damage, but rage. In that dog two small pinholes break the seal between this plane and the next, opening a doorway through its eyes into some dark beyond. I stood on the backside of the gate, wishing he were within and I were without, in the street, striding by without needing to pay attention to the savage barking of the devil dog trapped behind a gate.