I once had a dog that I named Scruffles. Scruffles and I were the bestest of friends, and we did everything together. We jumped, we laughed, we played, we swam, we sang, we showered. It was beautiful. One day, I had a sno cone and it fell on Scruffles. And he started to cry. He doesn't like it when sno cones fall on him, as I learned later on in life. He once told me that I smelled like onion soup, which is a good smell for a dog, but a bad smell if that's what you like. I went once to the grocery store with Scruffles to buy some dog food. He likes dog food because he is a dog. That's why I was going to the grocery store with Scruffles to buy him some dog food. It was an overcast day, a day foreboding in the minds of the citizens, who seems to creep away from their doorsteps upon its reproach. Things were simpler back in those days, when a boy of five could buy a Soda Pop for a mere five cents. Things aren't like that nowadays. It's a damn shame. People just don't like to hear that their world is crashing down around them. It makes them feel insecure and it gives them warts on the ends of their elbows. Those warts itch like a bitch too. I hate them. The warts follow me wherever I go. They talk to me and tell me to sing happy songs. I once saw them over by the trees, and they waved and said, "Hey, why don't you come over here and sing some songs with us by these trees. " I was like, "Well, OK", but I don't usually like to be around warts. They itch like a bitch". And they were like, "Well we're not those type of warts." I trusted them, those bastards. And Scruffles had to go to the bathroom, so I instructed him to go over by the trees and sit on the log. He did as he was told, because he's a good dog, and he sat over by the trees and sat on the log. The log was cold to the touch, a mite slimy, but I sat there anyways, and I sang the songs of the Ages with every last ounce of breath that I had, such was my devotion to my friend Scruffles and the log he sat upon. His was a strange life, filled with many complications and things of that nature. He sat before me a changed man, not changed in the physical sense, but changed in more of an etheric sense, floating above the pain and frustrations of the world like a singer of songs. And such was his voice! Oh the voice of a thousand angels bounced through my eardrums and made me happy as sin. Singing those songs brought me back to a time when things were simpler, and men were happy. Happiness is a rare commodity nowadays I find, when those who sing are with someone they love, and those without sing about wanting more. And the more that they desire is one that one couldn't have, and the drama that builds within their breast is more than can hold it, and he popped in front of me like a man with a past full of frustration. Can you desire such an experience? You can, but most likely you wouldn't hear of it, for you couldn't. Scruffles and I wouldn't let you. It's ours, and we're not about to share. We've worked long and hard to secure it, to make it ours, to make it mine. I won't share it. I can't. It's too precious. It's my lifeblood. It's the substance that makes me get up each morning to sleep at night. I can't let it go. It won't let me. It clings to me. Let it go. Please. Can you understand? Do you see what he tells you? The image of it haunts me like this morning. This desperate morning that sings the songs of the Ages to me. I sang them once, back in the old days. When a man could walk and not be harassed. They punch you now. They tell you to go away. This I cannot deal with. I couldn't ever deal with it. It stings when you touch it. It hurts when you sing. Singing used to be so much fun, with me and Scruffles. It makes me hurt to think of it now, to conjure up the images when the light becomes bright. The overcast sky allows me to look down to the ground and memorize the images that look back at me. Do you see them? They see you. They float over you, all around you. They want you to see them. Do you choose to see? They love you. All they want to do is see you and touch you. To make them yours. And you sing to them, and they love it. They just want to be with you. Can you understand? Where have you gone, my love. Love of a new and sacred time, when people could make things and not be shot with the gaze of stare. And I can't handle that anymore. To make things that don't do that. It hurts me, and I cry. But I get up again and stare at you, and make you look at me. And it hurts. But don't look away, for you'll never see it again. And you'll always punish yourself for not looking. It hurts. I've hurt before. It isn't a plesant touch, but one you'll always remember. Take the softness that you envelope yourself in, and bring it to others, and make them see. Scruffles is the one that did that for me. He is so special to me, he makes me take the proper step backward to examine and experience and lower my self to the level of All. He flashes and contrives and uses what he can to do what he does. And it is beautiful. And he sings and makes you know. He looks, and he understands, and he knows. And you'll see it on him. And he is hungry, so we go to the grocery store to by him his food.