It feels, sometimes, that I travel life blindly.  Way back when I was younger, when life had all sorts of beauty to it, when it was full of mysteries, full of wonderment—when I was innocent, naive..stupid—I saw life full of promise, full of hope.  That went away a long time ago, so long ago that I have no memories of that time when my world turned fuck.
Sometimes I wish the werewolf within me would simply burst forth, come out of me, full force; blood and all, full of dark glory, mutate into that werewolf form.  Seize the night, howl at the moon—take the gore of reality within its mouth and eat it all.

Yes, but then, I am sane, I am as normal as I can insist upon and the werewolf is but an allegory of some kind, which dwells deep within the beast which is me, or the other me, some long forgotten me from a misbegotten incarnation in my past.

Oh yes, the allegory of the werewolf, the dark spirit of man-and-beast—the beast within man’s soul, within man’s essence.

…if only…