The world has the face of a wolf. It's eyes are very dark and search. And as I run these streets, slower than I admit myself to be, sick with whiskey, lungs seared by abuse, it follows, above me, loping, somewhere above the streetlights, gentle. And far above that, in the sky, clinging to the fur of this great wolf's neck, are friends who have passed, at the hands of the enemy, or at their own clutching fingers, friends I have loved and hated and feel with my guts and my heart.