The hunter

Wolfie sais no!
The mongrel wolf with scars all over his body, the guardian and the friend, the hunter woke eventually.

A woman dances rock’n'roll on the beach, while her boyfriend drinks himself stiff, looking at her. She dances out of the sheer joy of dancing, with undissimulated pleasure, with the kind of sincerity given by thinking you are alone, or having a genuine orgasm. And I am thinking that we are at the summit of sentient beings not because we are “sapiens”, or “faber”, or “ludens”, because of Maradona, or Einstein, or The Doors. We are ruling this world because we encompass it in our whishes, ourselves included. We are so different, that I would kill for something another man cannot understand.
She walks away, sustaining him and I say good bye, we will meet, dancing, in another life. As birds, cartoons, waves, or electronic pulses, randomly appearing to this wretched race of unbelievers.
Wolfie said there cannot be peace. The soul is not constructed like that. I trust wolfie. I rested my head on his fur through more dreams than my life had scenes. That’s how I’ve always known I was dreaming and that the dream was mine. I often find myself wishing I’d see wolfie in life.