dogs in the morning

Wet benches dried by my warmth. Mint tea and Cervantes. "El viejo celoso"...
What do we look for in entertainment, in art, in literature? The experience of all that we cannot have in our real life? And what then is it that the artist needs? To purge, to write, to plaster her thought into a real, physical object to escape reality, to create reality, to invoke it or allay it?

If I had dogs, maybe I would just roll around on the floor and let them lick me. And forget all this useless conjecturing. I finally got up, motivated, and ready to release the weight (literal) and there were two beautiful eternally present canines, labs, a yellow and a chocolate, boy and girl. The perfect pairing if there ever was one. And their owner? Enigmatic.