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The Howls of my Mind
This basically just details the inner workings of my writer's mind.
I feel the earth under my paws, and I can hear her scream. The moon's glow on my white pelt is comforting, but cold at the same time. Why should I not be comforted by these things? Why do I feel alone? A black pair of wings, bat-like in their appearance, flap over the moon's pale face, and all I see when I look up, is flames. They dance so beautifully around the pale figure, and I wonder if he is Death, coming to collect me. No, his flaming sword is not meant to stain my pelt with ash. He is there to comfort me, not to harm me. I am wary of him, sniffing the air and coming back with the acrid stench of blood and the coldness that follows Death as a pale specter. My teeth flash, and so do his. They are white and perfectly straight, all but the canines, which extend slightly. He is a vampire, a stealer of life, and yet, he is as I am. He is a predator and to me he extends a hand of friendship. The sword melts into his back, and his wings fold to him. I do not fear him, alas, I feel a kinship to him. The earth quiets her screams to murmurs and the moon glows more brightly. It is as though they are blessing us with their quiet and their stillness. What is this supposed to mean?

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