Heul, how. How, howl. 
The wolf-me fjords my anatomy into an ambage assemblage, sunders  
to Bone and Spirit: archaic, famined, sounding in space. Peregrinations  
ruining in this runic, nacred Wen umbrage me into a brute, a wild beast, 

resolute lycanthrope cruising the center of a Capital bedeviled by all  
that which I will and will ever not claim. I feel rather like the End  
of Elegy. Death is physiognomy. Inclement rain. This city is a Necropolis  
misnamed, obsidian as the opulent flame, which is shadow, the aqueous 

body with which I bewitch terrain. I am the obviate State. I am the moon’s  
exanguinations in its surfeit days. To pass. To pass on. Lovelorn insomniac. 
Wulfsheude. New Countenance. Sinew crack. Out of the rambling Earth  
I emerge, wet the palate, bow down to all fours, and fanfare the Truest – O 

I am eschatology, the Little Science of Last Things. Muzzled trumpet. 
I dominate. I do not submit. Behold. When I take off my face, I replace it.