Sometimes in those dreams he is curled up on his pallet, knowing that his master is sitting outside with a cup of wine. There is the familiar mix of irritation, affection, and resignation, gone like cigarette ash when he tries to recall it later.
He dreams that he dreams, in great winding spirals that end in a single set of footsteps; the autumn moon is coming down from the sky, walking on bloodstained feet down towards his master.
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