The chthonic; the below, Gnawing, Crawling, Gawking, Stalking, It whispers to me in subtle erotic moans which catch my attention at the lowest levels, ensnaring me in one fell swoop. I am the prey now, the hunted, the victim, enslaved to the Wolf.
The Age of Hunger, of desire; the great beast of gluttony stands before me. I turn away but it remains at the front of my mind, its tendrils puncturing the thin veneer of normalcy which masketh all. That underlying demos which Man knows but does not know; That which he feels but fears, and frightens the bourgeois plumpness of the Modern even though his hunger is no stranger of the Great Beast Below.
A creak on the floorboards, It has its way with me; a second — a moment — of blindness, A numbing of the pain of life which we escape through different doors, Some lined with steep steps, Others smooth slides which slither ever downwards to the great nothing — that great Non-Being which lurks in the subconscious, And occasionally leaps into the forefront and takes us all by surprise.
Only one slayer of beasts walked these lands, however he is not dead, but sleeping. Waiting. Waiting to be awoken. It is but time — the Wolf’s belly will be full soon and when it lays down to rest it is most vulnerable, (It might even be a distant relative of the Tiger, for all I know.) The energy it takes to consume is never made up for via calories and so forth, those calories the Wolf burns are but its own Self.
An ouroboric anomaly which can see the back of its own eyes. And in them is fear. And in them is rage a thousand Sols bright. All just waiting to be peered upon, just waiting for that simple gesture upwards. It is but a matter of waiting, and Lupus knows this, hence its promiscuous rush, hence its rapidity and voraciousness.
A flame which burns twice as bright burns twice as quickly.