It was a cold winter on Muckle Flugga, a small, isolated island with nothing but rocks to comprise it and salt water to surround it. Harsh, chilly winds blew, howling over the hostile, grey terrain and slapping the sea, which roared back in a fervent fury. The night was black as the heart of Stalin, and enough to strike fear into any inhabitant (if there ever were any) of the isle as thick dark clouds whirled in the air with the intensity of a livid woman.
Atop the hard and jagged rocks stood an old, empty abandoned lighthouse. There was nothing in it.
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A man walks into a zoo. There's nothing there but one dog. It was a shih-tzu.
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