Its body moving fluidly across the shifting landscape of the dog park, the creature sniffs the crisp, melancholy air.
Walking the thin line between existence and void, its feet pad carefully through the darkness.
It thinks about pools of water and warm embraces, excited human voices and brief touches, the fleetingness of all life in the world. All this from one smell. The smell of home.
It is lonely, but this is the only home it knows.
When everything sleeps but the stars and the moon and the strange lights in the sky that blink and flash at random, it wonders if home is supposed to be lonely.
Is home supposed to be abandoned? Is home supposed to be cold and walled? Is home supposed to be a jail.
Too much thinking for one turn of the moon, there's no need to get philosophical every single night, it would think if it was capable of such intelligent thought.
Instead it lays its head on its paws and listens contentedly to the low hum that envelopes it at every doubtful moment.
As its eyes slide shut with exhaustion it hears the only words that have given it comfort in this twisted abode.
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