i just left him. he's laying under the kitchen table, his head on his paws. it's like any other grey day. i'll be back, i say. on the way it starts to rain. it feels like the whole city is sad and grey. there's a grey blanket over everything. the grey procession under grey sky. 
i'll miss him, but there's missing in me everyday. something is missing, an everyday thing. 

i ony got 3 pix this a.m. very ordinary. my camera, my energy, my battery, my eye fails. some technology you can't buy, and the rest you can buy again. there is a blind photographer who never sees her pictures, but she uses the camera to see in her mind. there's a cyclist who rides blind, clicking sonar like a bat. mister can see some things. you get the feeling of other things he's imagining. he dreams more, and i wonder if he sees clearly, or if he's also going
blind in dreams. there's a world of things he's helped me see.