Behold a field.
One cannot get there that simply. One cannot touch the snow. The mist is unreachable, impenetrable.
Time touches my essence. Somehow, there is a breach in time, in my times of life. Through a hole in time, I am transported there.
Into the field where pale blue light caresses the non-existent.
An outsider in time, immaterial, frozen on this side, I run on that field where pale blue stars are scattered. On the edges of my run, barely touching the field of vision, my dead dogs run.
They bark in voices of memory, bark at the hidden, unfound animals; in their voices of memory they relate to each other, and we rush with the wind together.
The field is not bare, there is a line of forest somewhere there, there is a depression right here, and then – a hillock; we run and know not
of beginnings, ends and fatigue.
The mist gathers in depressions. The mist is like water, and our feet get tangled in the clouds, we swim and fly.
We know each other from eternity.
We have had little time together. Only for a moment in life there has been the feeling of the moist tongue and a hand on the back.
Ad then – the question of why and where.
We run over the inaccessible field, and our relation is super-temporal.
I live in time. In times, I live. Outside all that, outside the set hours, the shackles of minutes and daily limitations, my dead dogs run.
Tireless, acknowledging me and each other from the outside of time, chiselled in my heart,
unforgettable, unconfusable, my very own
dead dogs on the border of the field of vision,
thus they do run.