every artist is a cannibal every poet is a thief
#14
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Moreso than the rest of his litter, Arkham seemed to be going about the world in his own way. His brother fell into the footsteps of hatred and madness and his sister was chasing after the ghost of their father. He didn't really understand either of their obsessions, though the latter made slightly more sense than the former. He liked to watch clouds fly across the sky and number each star when they came out at night. The coyote offered the grey wolf a lopsided grin as if to encourage an amendment from "not yet" to "soon." Things were complicated, apparently, but complications could be fixed -- most things could be fixed, right? He was still stuck in a world where most things had solutions, even if his mother was gone.



He seemed to recall Castor saying similar things. Discovery, surviving, and that sort of thing. It sounded somewhat appealing, actually, and he thought that maybe he would set off to "find himself" when he was older -- it was inevitable anyway, right? Independence was something everyone strove for; he knew he would get there eventually and he wouldn't have to eat everyone else to do it like Andre claimed. And he got kind of excited thinking about it; he didn't know who he wanted to be, but he could hope that he liked whoever he ended up as.



No, he said of the Yawrah, I 'aven't gone too far th' way yet, buh I think m'sister has th' look for dad, so mebbe I'll go visit soon too. The grey pup scratched an itch behind his ear with his foot. 'Zit hard t'find yer'self? 'Zit fun?
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