Rigwyn, your dog's scene is, I don't know, maybe similar to a heavy iron bar in the face...
Anyway...
Again: chills, blood tumbling/jumping/hiccuping so close to the spine and the stomach curls up like a half-frozen stiff pet who's trying to survive lost in the middle of some nasty winter.
Eyes glued to the billboard, following dark and tiny signs which are composing words on the parchment and inside the head.
But new thoughts overlap memories and memories of old thoughts, and they all beat each others down and jostle each others like disgruntled/unsteady/astonished drunkards at a pointless/sad/already-over party.
If justice isn't allowed to come in, then time isn't allowed to stitch up wounds and it can barely attempt to cheat, clumsily, covering them with dust and it all ends in a sigh that can't be a relief's one because relief can't originate from resignation.