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In the morning, the fog swallows the heads of the mighty buildings. Godsent white veils crowning the modern day soldiers who wage war with numbers. Sputtering spit of rain cloaks the city in wet aura. The clouds never cry, the clouds shed their cold sweat over the city. The city never cries, the city is only cried upon. With no sun, she walks alone in the cold, surrendering to the wind. Little does she know that thirty-seven steps into her path lies a stone-cold dead dog.

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