Northstar Vale ich bin nur in einer furcht

He doesn't do sadness;
for a second, he breathed with him in tangent, hoping to feel as light as the livid colored male, as if breathing in the same pace would lift his body and place at his side, standing over the undergrowth. He had lost his memory too? As guilty as it was to be elated at the fact, he was sure he could help him nwo without hesitation, right? They were the same .  . . His fur spiked in warm suprise as the quick answer spilled of harsh lips. His breathing was as such. 
for one, he could not comprehend the stubborness of this man. Was to much of of a chore to lower himself to ail the man's growling pangs and pain and hunger? His ears frayed and he submitted to a worried whisper, on tenterhooks: ❝ Why?❞ as his mind curled around fake perceievings and misgivings he had about the exchange, he felt wrong, as if he had uncovered something, tainted. He felt smaller, colder as he drew his legs closer to him, in him in an attempt to preserve whatever warmth had been wasted of the falsely stricken.

No.

He had to find the words that tumbled and danced on his tongue but shyed from the bane of winter. 
❝ I'm mean — it's called . . . fud?❞  Toiling with misplaced common speak like a newborn, he desperately grappled for some sign that the other would bestow some form of aid on him. Maybe he was mistaken? why was this proving to be so faulty. His amber orbs cautioned to water his cheeks. 

He doesn't do sadness;
but he does.