It’s 3 in the afternoon. It’s already getting dark. What’s left of the sun is fighting to stay alive over the trees. Or maybe it’s already given up. Welcome to winter, I guess.

Haven’t heard any sirens in a few hours, what’s going on, Surrey — did you forget to gun someone down, run someone over, stab someone in front of the new recreation centre that boasts of safety improvements since that lady was murdered there?

My son asks for his sadness so he can play, she’s from Inside Out — I hope. There’s something funny about a kid being sad that he’s lost his sadness. Maybe it’s generational. Maybe that’s how it is now.

The smelly and dirty and bloated dog carcass that somehow still lives and roams about licking the floors and chewing on the carpet until she vomits, then promptly eats her vomit, is outside — chewing on her own pile of shit.

Cycles and cycles and cycles, the way of the world. I don’t know if there is an allegory or message in there or if it’s as meaningless as it seems — just a dog eating pieces of its own shit. But I do know this: it’s nasty, your body was done with it, leave it alone.

She’s the dog that forgot to die. Or didn’t know she already died, her soul trying in vain to outlast her body. Aren’t we all, I ask myself, sipping my decaf coffee, aren’t we all? Like the city, the dog hobbles on ignorant or avoidant of its reality.

I close the blinds.