Sin Dog

That's what the label says. Ricer... Philanthropist... It burns! It burns like hygiene! Can itself filled with inspecific something, vaguely heavy and not so vaguely sloshy. The paper is faded and peeling a bit at the edges... Shark... It has sat here for awhile, it would seem, in this vaguely lit cupboard, and only now open to the outside world once more. Boo.

But now there is a cellphone on it, fluttered in with the open door... Bikini... Teabag... She's climbing the wall again, nevermind all the playground equipment behind her. Banana... The moth does not seem particularly happy... Perhaps the Sin Dog itself... Attorney... Milk... Indeterminate can... Mouse...

The escape pod, though, it wants it. It wants to know what's there. The gods have judged me false and now I linger in the realms between realms, doomed to an eternity of boredom... just like the gods themselves. I wonder what they did to warrant their eternities of boredom. So yes. Open it. Leash... Can opener... Scrawled little arrows in different coloured chalk... and maybe the occasional suggestive limerick, as well. Pool table... Open it!

The moth is dislodged in the process, and without further ado, flutters off into the dim.