Synchronic Daisy

What might I replace you with? Daisy does not appreciate the question. A noun, though, certainly. A goat, perhaps. A book? I stack the answers, one on top of the other. There! I say. A dog sits at my feet. A goat sits at my feet. A dog/goat/book sits/runs/growls at my feet/table/words. I watch the pile rise up. Feel its weight. Observe its freedom. Daisy has been waiting with all the prim-and-properness she can muster. She is hoping for a treat. Look how she stretches her neck! Look how she locates my face in the longest column of options. She fixes me. What might I replace you with? I ask, again, returning her gaze. Everything, she says, and nothing.

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