it's the nose in the keyboard, to work on his feelings and his flair, that the eyes are raised to understand investing his time. One day, we wake up, collar around our neck, it's not itchy to have it forever, and we don't really know what we look like, we especially seek to please our master, we acclimatize as we little to the life that we have, to say to ourselves "it's like that", until understanding that barking very loudly does not lead anyone to understand what we are talking about, just proof of an existence, a persistent noise in the garden of Eden, and to seek, to sniff the good smell, until forgetting his own, one sees passing what one does not often see, see even discovers, in a surface as smooth as water and solid enough to get wet, its reflection in the color of what you are looking at. Before we did not notice, but there is something that reflects his good mouth, the good dog discovers his traits in what attracts him. he is happy the doggie, he jumps everywhere, rolls around and plays with all his irons to forget his hell, but, when the games stop, in the silence of encouragement, the bars that separate his reflection from touch appear much older , suggesting that it had been there for a long time, but far too busy with the rest, it was unnoticed. The peeling paint leaves one to think how long this has been there, this barrier, this distance to be free, it is dimension that partitions, these perspectives that will not go further. The garden, if it is not there, would it still be of much use to see no one walking there? but are the bars really those which prevent and imprison him, or protect him from keeping a distance? In the end, who looks at who, the dog or the one who discovers it? the answer lies in bars, I think.