I watched over his shoulder as he began to write:

“Mourning my dead dog, I began to realize that the night was falling. Soon after, I went inside, slept, and once again began my day.”

I chuckled to myself. He turned around in the swivel chair and looked at me with a questioning eyebrow raised.

“What? You expect me to take that line seriously? Try again,” I said.

He hit the backspace key with much aggravation. He attempted again.

“In the process of mourning my dead black labradoodle-golden-retriever-spanish-american-cuban-roman-catholic-church-i-hate-when-you-do-this-to-me dog, I pondered his death. Then when I realized that the sky was turning into a death-like-so-black-that-it’s-blacker-than-a-black-hole-that-sucks-up-everything-i-wish-it-would-suck-up-you-and-then-I-wouldn’t-have-to-be-writing-this-stupid-story kind of darkness, I went back inside, and fell asleep. The next day the sun rose and I woke up.”

“That was worse than the first one,” I snapped.

“Try again,” he mimicked.