I am the wolf that fetches the bones of truth. I am the wolf. I am he who brings back bones of Truth, Truth dug from the void of my imaginings. Or torn from the marrow of my emotions, from the living heart of lived experience. Hackles raised, I rise up in howling defiance, tearing into everything the eternal Enemy throws at me. Seldom am I faced with more than paper tigers. Sometimes, though, sometimes the threat is real. Sometimes we must go to war, willingly, and suffer the stings and arrows of our Enemy. But even this I will bend to my advantage. Even these bitter barbs can be plucked free and chewed on as sustenance. Food for thought, to feed the life of the mind. Given Time, every wound of war will hurt only as memory, will callous into yet another scar across my snout. And I'm cool with that. She-wolves dig scars. It's taken a lifetime, but I've learned to laugh. Even in the reeking jaws of death, even here, learned it the hard