Under the moon's skeptical gaze, the wolves howl an elegy, a fractal serenade to the invisible banquet of stars. Irony drips from the sky—rain of contemplative satirical musings upon our oblivious dance floor.
"Aren't we brave?" asks the coyote, tongue-in-cheek. The shimmering grass whispers secrets of eclectic dreams; visions unfold kaleidoscopic and askew, like a drunk mime at the carnival of suburban folklore.
The night is young, dear reader—and so are our foibles.
And so, we waltz through the dew-ridden pastures of the existential, hunters of fleeting moments, chasers of half-dreams, with our four-legged companions whose eyes reflect the irony of being both seer and the seen.
In the end, the only dance partner is silence itself.