Probably a doghouse, though I’m not sure since there’s no dog around
 
Don’t cry, Mr. Tsuboyama. We made these men, these women, these people and polygonal nightmares just so they could die for us inside and out. Just so they could suffer, and we could feel it harden in our hearts at a safe distance. Sometimes I think we should be gods to them, but I quickly silence myself. How inappropriate would it be for me to lord my power over the undying, when I will die in less than ten years from a rogue cell that takes control and monopolizes my frail living body.

Harry found a doghouse with no dog.

Dry your tears, Mr. Tsuboyama. The fog is picking up, which means we’ll be in the center of town shortly. I’ll turn on the radio and we’ll listen to the industrial sounds of the ongoing night. Don’t you dare fall asleep. I need you to talk to me. I need you to keep me awake until we’re separated, and I begin my own journey towards revelation.

Harry died violently from the mutated dog bites.

His skin looked like the dogs’ when they finished with him, but we never get to see that, really. We never get to see how the light fades from his eyes. The world, instead, fades to dark and loads anew for us. Harry is reborn in that dark. Harry lives his entire life again in that black until the point where he entered town, or we last copied him to remember where to begin again in his suffering life.

This happens with all these things we create. Maybe all things, even. Death, load anew, begin again.

Death, life anew, begin again.

Isn’t that funny, Mr. Tsuboyama? I said, isn’t that funny.

Nick Perilli is a writer and library person living in Philadelphia with loved ones who have yet to watch Gremlins 2 with him. Work of his can be found in Maudlin House, Empyreome, FIVE:2:ONE Magazine, Ghost Parachute, and elsewhere. He tweets @nicoloperilli.