they whisper words into my ears.

[Shakadyn]

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and who's to blame; i could assume Meandering mindlessly indeed. Sorry for rambling, I got caught up in digressions. the loneliness of my white room Ah. Meandering mindlessly did not become him. Luckily, he had things to do today, so it wouldn't be mindless for long. Either way, he was enjoying his exploration, his usually restful being stirred into activity by... what? Curiosity, maybe, or the winter's chill — actually, as Cancerian moodiness dictated, he was feeling poetic and romanticizing the title of lone wolf. Just to better fit the part, he'd even removed his pink collar, afterwards making the slow and agonizing(ly beautiful, he supposed) shift into his two-legged form to brush and comb the fur out. Though he'd been born, not bitten, he'd always found it a little difficult, and as such felt pressured to do it privately. Nevertheless, he was back on four legs now (the better to travel with, my dear), and he shook from his exquisite mane down to the tip of his tail, if only to reassure himself that he was evened out and decent enough to venture from his camping cove. Back to the point — he'd traversed the unclaimed area of the bay and scaled the lowest elevations in the northeastern mountain range in a matter of days, and, to regain his footing in the area, promised to take it slow from now on. Even so, the aforementioned cove was already close to the Concrete Jungle's sparse suburbs, situated in the southern mountains smack in the middle of four hills. His obsessive-compulsive spatial thoughts had dictated that he create a fire pit right in the middle of that, and, while he'd spent some time worrying about it, he was fairly confident that he'd gotten it right after looking in from one of those hills. So, naturally, unable to be satisfied with himself for too long, he'd now gotten it into his head to window-shop for something a little sturdier. Less primitive. He'd have made a better dog than he did a wolf, and more a Pomeranian than a Malamute. Then again, the fire pit and tiny abandoned house he'd found nestled there did have a certain rustic charm... He now paused somewhere high up (but not too high, as he was phobic of heights, especially abrupt, jagged ones), sitting, thinking. The view was admittedly beautiful — mountains to his right and a sprawling cityscape a bit to the left and front of him, as if nature and humanity had been waging a war. Someone had told him stories about it once, and he let his mind wander, wondering.

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