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[...] true enough, an almost piteously weak yell rips out of the shepherd's throat when heather greys land on the kitten, teary-eyed and as terrified as their words let on. frisk. frisk. a soul as beautiful and soft as the flowers weaving their way through various injuries on their little frame. a soul who has demonstrated that even the prettiest flowers have thorns. a soul who has marred him for the rest of his life.
— whitelace komaeda

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