Traveler in situ,

The dream continent is taking stock of your destiny, the tidal shelf wags and slakes in viscous prenatalia

It is said time waits for no Fox, for we are time itself, moulded and made to fit flush with any die required of us in any lands we occupy.

Wether sultanate, chiefdom, constitutional monarchy, or even neocollectivist commune your vulpinic senses will affix themselves by nature.

Or nature will bend to yours.

You'll wonder why things go smoother at times, why even in hardtacking you'll come out drier than your friends.

You'll get whispered about in envy. You'll believe their lies. You'll hate yourself to the point that drink and needle become a constant companion.

You'll find mistrust a given in all transactions. Even if love is your agenda and you; the Wry-God's stylus upon slate, few will put their stock in you and yet fewer to swear by your testimony

Yet of all the misery you'll face , it's the resiliance of an animal given to lust after the space which light and dark meet that will spur your energy

Your mettle will be forged of pasions invisible to common folk. You'll run with rainclouds, drink yourself delirious with it's cool freedom, you'll believe in the  kinetic motion of the universe and feel it's pull as affirmation of the Wry-God's power and the Goddess's endless laughter never far from your fugitive ears.

With chaotic love,

Your mother vixen in absentia