Donso! Konya! A dog wearing a shirt, talking about bread.

This song is a dog who keeps circles in a room and trots around them and gets your attention and you find yourself interacting with the dog more than the people somewhat. I guess it’s a kind of small dog. The kind of dog that couldn’t pull off the poker/pipe look, nah rather the kind of dog that would look self-confident sporting a Hawaiian shirt and a long drink and a tight conversation about what kind of bread one should buy. I’m a wholegrain myself, but the small dog, yeah the small dog in the Hawaiian shirt would recommend, stifle a suggestion:

“Yes, no, white bread: totally not a problem”

In a small feverish kind of bark before very quietly rearranging the geography of its dog biscuits in the bowel, its fruit slices in the coke-coloured poison, so feverish, so much rearranging that you’d perhaps think that the dog was just making dumb shit up on the spot. That kind of moment that sticks in the head long after any such encounter with the dog and for some whatever reason recurs in your head as you try to concentrate on, I don’t know, like, just trying to get some shit done?!

Just need to get some shit done I guess.

And I’m somewhere, nowhere, everywhere just feeling like these places that the dog always talks about, makes me think about, are just around the corner, rooting for me. Rooting for me as I root for them, getting into the rhythm.

Just need to get into the rhythm I guess.

Donso! Konya!

 

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