[emporio!]

theres you, and theres the dog, and theres the aching in your stomach, and thats all.

youve been measuring days as the time between sleep, the time between food. you measure how long its been by the battery percentage on your phone. nine hours for it to drain completley, seven if you have music playing. you sleep when youre tired, which is often, and you eat when your body tells you to, which is less often. the dog largely takes care of itself. you think it views you as nothing more than a vessel to deliver food, to refill water, to open and close the backdoor. (the last strikes you as odd. its paws can grip, and its smart enough to copy phrases. why doesnt it open the door itself?) none of this is built on structure. you find yourself regularly forgetting what day of the week it is.

you have friends who would gladly tell you what day it is, of course. you love them dearly. youre not talking to them though. you dont like to approach first. instead youre digging through the insides of a ceramic animal, your childhood piggybank; your life savings are kept in here, and you feel nauseous separating the contents. quarter, nickel, dime, penny. a handful of one dollar bills. a canadian dollar. a pressed penny, advertising an aquarium one state away. youre getting upsettingly tearful over it all. it feels like the end of something. here you are, rooting through the innards of something you worked so hard to keep contained. you can almost feel the ghost of your child self glaring at you from across the table.

you count forty dollars in quarters. you swallow down tears. you count ten dollars in pennies. you wipe away tears. you count one cent in mutilated change, the coin pressed into the shape of a shark, and your tears drip on the table. youre unsure why youre crying. its just a penny, a penny you thought was the coolest when you recieved it from the machine. the last time you went to the aquarium you were with your mother and her sister's children and here you are now, alone with your stomachache and the thing you generously refer to as a dog. you rest your head against the cool wood of the table and you sob, and you miss the people you drove away, and your hands smell like pennies when you push them against your face to wipe the tears away.

you wish, childishly, for a baloney sandwich. your mother used to carve smileys in the meat when she fried it.

you hear the dog scratch at the door to be let in. you allow yourself to stay pressed against the table for a beat longer before you straighten up again. the tears (you still dont understand what the pupose of all that crying was. its coins) are wiped away on the inside of your shirt. the ache in the pit of your stomach dissipates when you stand and your phone, helpfully, pings with an email about an upcoming modest mouse concert. you let the dog in. it sits back on its strangely human legs and begs until you pick it up, and the sigh you release after doing so is a fond one. youre not irritated.

its just you and the dog, after all. the two of you only have each other.

[Loxosceles]

this is strange and beautiful and wonderful

[risotto]

hey I love you and your writing (incredible) and the weird dog. everything here is good

[zolh]

this is so good
i hope the depicted persons are doing well