The moon does not see such things, pouring in over two soft, blonde heads doting upon each other like primal ancestors, picking at dirt and calluses, remnants of a day outdoors that will always be remembered as being tragic and horrifyingly memorable as a result of the dead pet dog, who will not be forgotten to the two blonde heads, frozen as a vision of running into the street only to be attacked by the harsh blue metal of man’s greatest invention, only to be thrust into a place where fetching the soft, blonde heads’ ball is no longer a possibility.
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