A poet strives to reinvent himself following an accident in which he lost his old self.
I imagine the dog thinking to itself: why does my Master flush his poo away when he goes to such trouble to gather mine in a little perfumed bag and store it in one of those big plastic bins? It just doesn't make sense. Strange creatures, humans!
Probably very true Richard. :-)
I really appreciate constructive feedback. If you are able to comment it would be most grateful.