The Dogman by Arthur Floyd

Everything is always happening, all the time, constantly.

I often hope that I can find an end, a conclusion, but I just end up feeling like a snake devouring itself.

“Closure”—I loathe the word. There is no such thing as closure. The grief never leaves, the pain never stops—a wound never heals, a scab that is always waiting to be picked at, a pernicious tumor feeding off pain and absence.

My father had a scab on his heel. He was always picking at it. I don't think it ever healed.

I've seen the parents of children who went missing over 40 years before I spoke with them break down sobbing as if they had just heard the news. They keep their child’s room the same way it was the day they left—a museum of religious artifacts too sacred to touch. A little box in a closet is the closest thing to a casket. Something so small cannot hold all the memories of who someone was, and yet it does. A museum of tragedies.
Forward. Backward. All the same story. Again. And again. And again.
Everything is always happening, all the time, constantly.

"Pretty Boy Floyd" is a collection of music written while under possession.