"Wolfie, Wolfie, what's the time?" A meek voice probes.
"10 O'clock" sounds a growl from the shadows.
"Wolfie, Wolfie, What's the time?"
"11 O'clock".
"Wolfie, Wolfie, what-"
"Late, child. Very late. Quarter to twelve. The Earth does not stop, nor does it turn faster. The creatures of the night wait not for your insignificant voice, but will flee at the sight of the sun. That is your possession, and mine. The only indisputable force which separates us. Together, we make mistakes. Together, we make the silence."
Leaves crackle rhythmically as invisible tracks mark passage. A cold breeze creeps ever closer.
"Cities, people, lives, emotions, art. The mountains, the plains, the sky and the horizon. Disappear..."
The dark woods come alive with snarls, howls and squawks, a crescendo of nature's chaos. The child trembles and whines, but stands strong against the howling gale, eyes reflecting the same darkness within that exists without. Shapes circle and circle, mist in a tornado.
Hush.
"Feeding time."
ns 15.158.61.16da2
