Here it is with changes. If you want a .doc with changes recorded PM me with your email, or suggest a place besides google to post it.

Summer comes and if I could tell time I think I would say it comes quickly. But nomads can’t tell time, and with Lily I'm a nomad. Days blend into nights blend into days and with her the hours of my life slip away loosely. Days into nights into nights into days and I remember none of them. Lily is a prophet, or maybe a sociopath. We’re wandering, drunk and sweating, under the eaves of a giant stone library. A German Shepherd slinks out of the yew hedge that lines the brick path, head held high, watching us wide eyed. We stop. “Careful,” I say. Lily squats on her haunches and sets down the near empty vodka bottle on the path next to her. “Naw.” She smiles at it. “He’s not a stray. He’s someone’s pet.” She’s right. The dog has a full chest and clean hair. There’s a patterned collar around its neck. “C’mere boy,” Lily says. She makes a kissing noise. “C’mere.” The dog seems reluctant. It looks over its shoulder, away from us. Then it looks back. “C’mere,” Lily says, her voice high pitched and inviting. Days into nights into days. Lily says that we are enlightened. Unburdened by memory, worry, and want, and hope, and mercy. Lily wears silver rings, and narrow jeans, and gaudy acrylic nails that stick out a half inch past her fingertips. Her black leather jacket is loose and boxy on her. The dog trots over to her and she scratches it behind its ears and it closes its eyes. Its tail swings lazily from side to side behind it. It cranes its neck. Lily coos and smiles at it. She looks up at me, grinning. “He’s cute, ain’t he?” she says. “Yeah,” I say, but suddenly I’m nervous. Lily’s right hand drifts down from its muzzle and picks at the bricks cobbling the path, testing for a loose one. Her left stays at the dog’s head, scratching behind its ears. She nuzzles it gently with her cheek. The dog nuzzles her back, entranced. “Lily. Lily, don’t.” She won’t do that. Christ, she wouldn’t do that. Lily wants to live forever. Her current method is drink vodka ‘til you’re pickled. “Formaldehyde would work better,” I don’t say to her. She finds a loose brick and scrabbles at it for a moment before she can find a finger hold, all this without looking away from the dog, and pries it out of its decayed setting. She nuzzles the dog again, and the dog, eyes half lidded and tail wagging harder now, leans into her. She stands up, one hand scratching the dog behind the ears and the other clutching the brick. “Lily. Don’t. Lily don’t do that.” Oh my god she’s going to do it. Like mammoth hunters. Like taiga wolves. Lily says that together we will live and die and nothing more. She lifts the brick in her right hand, hefts it above her head, and in one clean motion, twisting her body like a batter swinging at a baseball, her ocher hair swinging out behind her, she slams it on the dogs face. There’s a sound like a melon being dropped, and its face crumples like tinfoil, and blood spatters up onto her jacket and face. When she lifts the brick away the dog’s eye is gone and all that’s left of what was once the left half of the dog’s face is an oozing pulp of torn skin and shattered bone. And the dog, trapped in titanic awe, stares up at her wide eyed as she cocks her hip back again for another blow. “Lily. Please. Oh, Christ.” I say, almost whispering. Lily told me she once heard The Doors say that out here on the perimeter there are no stars. She knows about these things better than I. She swings the bloody brick again, and again the melon dropping sound, and I flinch. The dog’s head snaps around this time and its right eye goes dull. “Lily, oh Christ no.” I say. Lily told me she once heard The Doors say that out here we are stone. Immaculate. The dog rocks once and staggers, catching itself. Then its front legs fold and it collapses onto the brick, splayed awkwardly in the middle of the path. Blood pools under it and begins to flow through the grid of spaces between the bricks, red on red. “Oh, Christ,” I say. Lily. My Lily. Lily drops the brick. Her face is blank. For a moment she looks at the dog’s body. She tries to wipe the spattered blood off her face with her sleeve, but the leather just smears it around so she gives up. “Leave the body.” She says, and turns and walks away, and after a moment spent staring wide eyed and tight jawed at the corpse on the path I pick up the vodka bottle and follow, because I have to, because I love her. This is us, millennial nomads in full bloom. Smells good. Days into nights into days, and no memory.