A story for crying women with red noses

These days, I am always accompanied by a cloud. It’s not multicoloured or liberal in its political opinions but it can hold its own in a conversation about more important things like gourmet cuisine or science fiction. It talks of a wolf on the far end of a stony forest, the kind that burns in June and breeds in July. It says that I have seen the wolf and it is my most dire nemesis. It doesn’t breed. It doesn’t lead a pack. It does not forage for food but only starves. It runs across the forest repeatedly until the summer ends. And in the winter, it hides in the silvery snow, underneath its greying coat. If you are lucky, on a moonlit, starry night full of the most idyllic promise, you will hear him howl the most romantic verses to the moon, as he envisions his love, his pain, his torment and his longing and captures them in his purple, blueberry eyes that have no place for life except on such nights. And if you must see him, you must look him in the eyes and stare until he looks away, for it was a man once, and so were you.


“The moon, the cloud and a fairy tale” – The Heathen Poet

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