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Throwing buckets of paint and disappointment on hotel walls and kicking machines whose gears haven't turned in two decades. Chewing peyote under bridges and hallucinating the jabberwocky, slaying it with the vorpal sword. Burning cigarettes on the nape of your lover's neck and jumping and howling and crying on their bed. A wolf holding a rifle. A wolf firing it at his best friend. Kafka had seen many things.
And he had never before seen a wolf riding a horse, so he still raised his proverbial eyebrow at the chief. The red wolf smelled of other wolves and animals and maybe smoke, and Kafka found this comforting. He seemed like a nice guy. “My parents and brother are gypsies, and I don't want to live that lifestyle anymore,” and he was completely guileless. It is easy to display a wound, the proud scars of combat. It is hard to show a pimple, Kafka had read not too long ago, but he conceded to the situation. Family is incredibly important, but he needed more of an anchor to this world than that. “I'm not happy to say that I left them, because I believe that maybe it's the blood that makes a place your home and not the earth.”
quote from leonard cohen... sorry it's late and that my post table is irrelevant. deleted photoshop and this is the only table of mine i have that doesn't have another's char name on it :<