In trying to account for anger, one is inevitably led to fear. Dogs struggle against the fence between them, their jaws snapping, intimating cruelty. Yet any point of identification is only marginally helpful. As a writing project can serve either to hide or partially reveal authorial discretion. One is invested in the nineteenth century, one has a certain predilection.
In the morning I choose my words carefully while at night I babble. The study of commas are a substitute for life. Walking the same trail I walked in dreams, aware of some interior kernel from which peace might spring were I ever to discern the right method, was itself a kind of peacefulness. Or else bring all the pieces to the table and then let's decide. Grieving parents make bad guides.
Yet loss - scarcity - abounds. And the perennial emphasis on Jesus can only be marginally helpful. We eschew coffee, go for long walks, remember a point about poetry, made I think it was decades ago. Thus this in the wake of prayer. Thus absence.
Thus you leaped a second time and that was both end and beginning. The past as a beacon directing our attention. And yet, again. In trying to account for anger, we come to fear, which appears inexplicable, without source, at least without resort to mythology. What I am saying is that dogs matter in the same way prayer can reduce us to desire.