Brothers and sisters, today we delight in the story, the only path to happiness that exists in this life.

The story must be told.

The story must be told.

And now, a brief reading from the book of Burning Buildings titled 14 Dogs.

I own 14 dogs, and this is how they all died.

Strong Anthony got sucked under a street sweeper, bristled Ilused to goo.

Rawfoot choked on all the coins. I made him swallow.

Tantam and Tampan ascended to heaven, body and all.

The rest died from eating expired dog meat, but I wasn't wasting it.

No, sir. Don't tell me how to raise my dogs.

The man sat there in his own filth waiting to be told anything, but he was alone.

It began raining outside, and he heard the location of each hole in his Swiss cheese ceiling.

The sunset.

He didn't like candles.

Despite the soak of the rain, the filth did not subside.

Months passed. And organ failure, by organ failure, his body did give up.

The filth replaced each dead cell from his toes to his eyelids, so he petrified.

A filth statue for a forgotten Pompeii.

The story must be told is a spiritual experience.

And it is your life forever now.

A new story is released every Tuesday, repents, and subscribe.

The story must be told.

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