The man with the fuzzy legs and the equally fuzzy dog wiped a handkerchief over the deep lines in his forehead, those that seemed to hold up his thoughts, along with his thinning gray hair, and said, "I can't even think about the future. This turd is going to bomb Iran." I held up the bag that contained Lilith's poop, and he wished it could be put into a Big Mac and sent as a gift. His phone rang. Lilith and I walked on.
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