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November 6, 2016
Spending a day with my vomit. Little bombs on turd submarines. The squirming bits, a little bit of this, a little bit of that. multicolored little faces fighting with the feces, makeshift battleships under a torrential downpour of oily rain. I could build a house on that tiger plain, roof like sky on the underbelly of a dog in heat hunched over the porcelain operating table. Only a few select veterinarians could even approach the challenge. I'm game. In a heaving fit, I launch the next volley. It's a hit! And the ship sinks. No life rafts left for Danny.