As Hachikō darts to the left, he almost breaks free of my grasp. I’ve never had a good grasp of anything, but on this occasion, an exception is made. With the chain snapping comes an audible flash of sound that causes me to squint. Pulling with all his might, Hachikō drags me along as I clutch a bemused Meeko in my free arm. In my head, I see myself as a strange man stealing a mannequin from an ‘80s movie. A bad one. Scuffing the heels of our worn shoes on the dangerous edges of the broken paving slabs that outweigh the unbroken paving slabs two to one, the oranges and yellows in the hazy sky smudge the outlines of the surrounding buildings. As the ink across my eyes floats with no direction in mind, we become untethered in the time it takes to pass from one block to the next. Biting at a passing wasp, the dog twists and turns. Snapping his teeth the same way the chain around his neck snaps whenever I flick my wrist, he moves as if on ice while all the time taking us down a particular path. Perhaps it’s one he’s made before, or maybe his choice is based less on history and more on a fleeting feeling guided by the hand of some spiritual being the likes of which Meeko and I are only aware of in the seconds after sex; those seconds when the doorway shimmies open. They say animals can see ghosts, don’t they? And children, right? As I hold onto Meeko as tightly as I can, I imagine us surrounded by those who have gone before. Such a thought reminds me of my existential days of awakening back when I was at university. The canvas of life is like a Pollock, you know that, right? If I had to pick, I’d go for his One: Number 31, 1950. It’s a personal favourite of mine. Most go through life with their noses pressed firmly against the cloth, and yet those such as us take the time to step back and see the bigger picture. It still doesn’t make any sense nor give a cathartic sense of resolution, but what we see allows us to be something more than what was intended. Actually, I’d say Pollock’s Autumn Rhythm is my favourite. So much beauty and violence in perfect balance. In one effortless fuck, they dance for no other reason than for the sake of dancing. The two aren’t really two, either, but one. We’re all one if you stop and think about it. There are no discernible outlines. We try and enforce our laws, but the natural state of things is a frenzied, fluid kiss. The kiss is quick. Real quick. Wet and tonguey. The before and after is infinite black in every direction, and yet when blood-red lips have the chance to meet, the tiny strings of being pulsate to the chaotic beat of an ageless, universal heart.