deepundergroundpoetry.com
Love - Between Worlds
*** A retelling of my previous work - "Love, encapsulated" with a different ending. Inspired by the work of Chiara Bautista. ***
It’s almost midnight, and somehow, despite the wind that shakes the trees throughout the forest, the clearing is still and quiet. The small loch is as smooth as glass, a perfect reflection of the starry skies above.
The girl sitting by the lake is enjoying the quiet. Her long dark hair sits soft and undisturbed, flowing down over her shoulders as she concentrates, looking into the dark depths of the water. In one hand she holds a pad of paper, a sketch half-completed marring the pristine white page – the pencil, until recently held in her other hand, lies abandoned on the soft grass beside her.
Her eyes are locked on the water, intently studying her own reflection. She raises her free hand to brush back a wandering strand of hair, then stops, her hand still lifted, watching the moonlight play across her skin. She waves her fingers back and forth. Her reflection, of course, mimics her, giving her the curious impression she’s waving to herself. The feeling makes her tilt her head to one side, the deep. chocolate eyes of her reflection following her movement. They have an interesting quality to them, she decides – she feels like they’re studying her, reading her, even though they give nothing away – at least, nothing she can decipher. She looks for a sense of pain, of joy, of loss, of love, of anything hiding in the emerald sparks, but to her frustration she can’t find whatever she’s looking for. Her reflection mirrors the curiosity, but not the emotion – whatever she’s feeling, and trying to examine.
She stills suddenly, straining her ears to try and hear something above the gusts of wind rattling through the rest of the trees. She breaks her gaze with her mirrored self, and raises her eyes to the North, scanning across the star-studded expanse like a ships lookout, lips slightly parted as tough at any second she will a warning, or a plea. Whatever she seeks makes no appearance, however, and she resumes her solitary contemplation, her face almost confused. Is she waiting? Does she know why she is here?
She picks up her pencil again, bending her head to the design taking shape on the pad. Rapid, smooth strokes darken the page, as from nothingness she edges, defines, and creates something entirely of her world, whichever it may be. There’s an element of transition in her drawing – something indefinable and unseen, flowing from her to the paper and returning. A perfect conducting loop, as her art pulls worry and trouble from her and returns serenity.
A sharp crack echoes from somewhere else in the forest – a branch breaking or twig snapping, the wind ripping free a limb as it rages its way across the world. The girl spares not even a glance – nothing will touch her, in this time and in this place. The pencil strokes become her private symphony, faster and faster to a crescendo of rapid, light shading, fading away to a low, long, drawn-out curve. A world of creation in 3 dimensions.
She relinquishes her grip on the pencil and softly brushes the design with her fingertip, blurring and softening a line here or there, the drawing flowing smoothly together, like molten silver settling on the page. The fresh graphite coating her fingertip shines in the moonlight, and she swirls it through the air, enjoying the faint breeze and the muted flash of the silver-grey sheen.
The artist dips her finger in the loch, washing it clean in the dark water. The calm surface disturbed, gentle ripples spread outwards, softly lapping against the shore. She contemplates her distorted reflection, watching her eyes flash once, twice, and again, vanishing and reappearing with each passing ripple. The flashes come longer and longer, until her eyes stare back at her undisturbed, only the contours of her face still mutable. She holds her own gaze, as though soothing herself, until the water lies still and peaceful once more.
And yet…
The water is still, but the stars and moon reflected in the blankness seem still to ripple, almost imperceptibly. The girl notices nothing – she has picked up her work and is scrutinising it carefully. The minute motion disturbs her not at all.
The reflection begins to shimmer more. No longer rippling like water, the stars seem to be moving behind the curtain of night’s blackness – like actors, dancers, they begin to shift, still so slowly, but more deliberate now, as though something behind the scenes is directing them. They coil and sway, glinting ballet dancers stretching for an opening move.
She notices something.
In the water, the moon is no longer still. She leans forward, entranced, looking for the ripples against the land that cause this. Her eyes widen with surprise at there being none, until eventually, wonderingly, she tilts her head back and turns her beautiful eyes to the skies.
The moon drifts a little, and the stars flicker, as though something is pulling on them. Lines appear where none were before, and somehow a shadow is cast even on the midnight darkness. Her mouth parts, anticipation, uncertainty and surprise all mixed. The wind rises.
The wolf stands up.
She never knows when he appears – at one moment the stars are shifting and the next, she knows him to be a wolf. The moment of a moment, time too small to be measured – and she sees him.
As he uncoils from his slumber, standing tall, he shakes, rolling his head, and pulls himself free of the backdrop of the world. A mile above the ground, he stands with the North Star on his forehead, pushing gently at the moon with his muzzle.
He throws back his head and howls, though the artist, sitting far below, cannot hear it. Instead, she hears the rest of the forest shake as the wind gusts through it harder than she has ever known.
The wolf turns, swinging his head this way and that, his nose questing for something. The girl looks up at him, seeing his outline shimmer, the thick ruff of fur on his neck and shoulders ruffling gently in some celestial wind. She sees the massive paws padding across acres of sky as he searches for whatever is occupying him.
All at once, she sees his eyes. She sees them look right at her, the whole shaggy body becoming still, stopping solidly in place. The weight of his gaze presses on down on her, almost a physical presence, and he cocks his head to one side, his ears flicking ever so slightly. She is reminded of her own study of her reflection – she wonders what he is searching for in his scrutiny of her.
He begins to move again, but this time he pads downwards, walking out of the sky towards her. With every step he changes slightly, making his way down out of the constellations towards the treetops. Following a curving, spiralling path, he shrinks somewhat – still larger than any animal she has seen, but no longer the titan he was. At the treetops he stops, and with one final leap he is out of the sky, and standing on the edge of her clearing.
She sits there, almost frozen. For all he has decreased in size, he still stands as tall as her shoulder, and though slightly shorter than her, he seems close to twice her size overall, each paw almost the size of a car wheel. His coat is the same darkness as the sky above, and stars decorate his flanks and limbs, the north star on his forehead the brightest of them all. His eyes, though, are what arrest her – not the featureless white of the moon she half-expected, nor the amber colour of any wolf she could think of – instead, a grey colour not dissimilar to the shaded pencil on her sketch. Light, yet deep and dark, and above all, watchful.
Something inside her makes her stretch her hand out. What it was, she couldn’t say – maybe the emotion she’d been looking for in her reflection, maybe something else that she could see, flickering into life behind those same grey eyes – but she reaches out towards the huge animal, inviting him closer.
He sniffs the air, eyes never leaving her, then slowly, rolling his shoulders forward with each motion, he takes the steps closer. His tail swishes behind him, cutting softly through the air with a gentle rush, the first sound she can remember being made in the clearing by anything other than her. She notices he leaves no mark on the grass as he passes – for all his great size, he puts not even enough pressure on the ground to bend a single blade.
He presses closer, hesitantly, until her hand rests behind his head. She begins to run her fingers through the thick fur, surprised at how solid he seems, and yet…not. The pressure of his body against her hand, the thick softness of the fur across his neck is undeniably real, yet she feels that if she presses too close, she could fall right through – perhaps not physically, but in some way she cannot describe. Her heart beats faster – even stroking him like this, she cannot help but be scared of the sheer size of him, the huge rolling muscles under her questing fingers. He ducks his head, nuzzles closer against her side, a peaceful rumble coming from his throat, setting her slightly more at ease. She brushes her across his ears and they flicker, making her giggle a little.
The wolf sits closer to the artist, his long body half curled around her, with his head resting in her lap, almost eclipsing it entirely. His paws, stretched out in front of him, look huge to her – she leans forward and holds one in her hand, marvelling at how it dwarfs her own hand. She looks down to meet his gaze, which she is almost certain is laughing at her a little. She blushes, and lets his paw drop, an action which provokes a grumble from the beast. She runs her fingers up his leg and scratches him lightly under the chin. His eyes close slightly and his head tilts back.
She didn’t realise how cold the clearing had been until he was pressed against her, radiating heat at every touch. She shivers and presses closer, her arms wrapped around his thick neck, barely meeting on the other side. He curls a little tighter, wrapping his hind legs around her as she sits there, her face pressed against his neck. His tail thumps on the ground a few times as he wraps her tighter in the warmth. He rubs his head against hers, trying to soothe her, calm her. The wind rages on around the clearing, but not one hair on his head is disturbed.
She feels him breathing. It’s something that she’s not sure comes as a surprise or not – in some way she hadn’t expected him to breathe, had thought him too still and quiet for his chest to so much as rise and fall – and yet she’s not in the least bit shocked to feel his body expand and contract against hers. It just feels right, somehow – it feels exactly as it should.
She never knows how long they sit like that, pressed together, him keeping the cold from her. She talks to him, tells him her life, tells him her pain and her troubles. The emotion and worry she poured into her drawings is poured into him, and as he gazes into her eyes she sees him accept it. She sees him listen, and accept, and as he presses close again she feels him help.
He never says a word, but somehow she knows him. She feels the way he wanders the skies, passing through the world, searching for something. She doesn’t know what – maybe he doesn’t either. He pushes his paws into the ground, without leaving a mark, and she feels his frustration, his resentment, against what he doesn’t know, the rage against the loss and uncertainty over his own existence. When he rolls his head and looks up at her, half upside down, she feels his humour, a rumble from his chest mimicking a laugh as he bats at a loose strand of her hair. He nuzzles her hands with his nose, and she feels his contentment.
He passes his eyes over her drawing, and she shows him it, holding it up in front of his deep grey eyes, laughing when some loose graphite dust tickles his nose and he sneezes, pushing his muzzle into the grass. He comes up with a stray blade of it sitting on his nose, and it’s the funniest thing she’s seen in a long time. She’s not sure he understands the drawing, but he understands the work, the soul she gave it, and he likes it. He presses his nose against it and breathes out softly, and the faintest starshine drifts from his coat and into the page, almost imperceptibly lighting it from the inside, making it look real. She gasps and hugs him, wrapping her arms around him and holding on for dear life. Her eyes start to well up and she dries them in the soft, warm fur of the lupine figure around her.
Away in the woods, branches break in the wind, loud and sharp. The noise of some animal or other drifts through the trees faintly – and above, a shooting star streaks a trail of light across the sky. The girl looks at the light, and vaguely registers the noise, but the wolf…
He half-stands, his lower body still curled tightly around the beautiful artist, his front paws braced against the grass, and unleashes a growl that echoes around the peaceful clearing. The noise rumbles on, through the forest, carrying far and wide. All other noises stop, even the wind dropping to a whisper instead of a scream. His shoulders tensed, his tail still, and his jaws slightly open, eyes glaring a warning at the night sky. His growl rumbles deep through his body, sending gentle vibrations through the girl. Somehow, though, she isn’t scared. She knows this growl isn’t at her – it’s at the world.
She knows he’s protecting her, against anything. Everything. The world. She knows what that growl means.
Mine.
The growl cuts off, and silence reigns over all for a time.
“Silly Wolfy!”
He looks around at her and blinks, startled. Her laughing voice breaks the spell, and the wind picks up again, though nowhere near the level of before. He twitches his ears at her, and she feels his querying look – doesn’t she know he’s telling the rest of the world she’s protected?
The girl – his girl – giggles, and hugs him again. She knows alright, and she loves it. She just thinks he looks cute when he’s confused, instead of the big, bad, dangerous beast. She cuddles him closely and whispers to him as he lies back down. Contented, he curls around her again, slitting his eyes as she strokes him gently. Being a Wolfy is better than a Wolf, he thinks. When he was a Wolf, he was a lot less happy than now.
She tells him more of her life, of her family, her friends, everything she can think of. He never asks questions, and she wonders why. His response comes flooding over her, in great waves – she isn’t a puzzle for him to solve, she’s an answer to experience. He has found what he’s looking for.
She sits back, and he rises slightly to look her in the eyes, grey meeting brown with every emotion in the world hovering and flitting in the space between them. She gently rests her hand along the side of his muzzle, and their foreheads rest together, both of them at peace.
She loves the feel of the wolf – her wolf – under her hand, her head, pressed against her body. Her other hand brushes over his broad, strong chest and for the first time, she feels his heartbeat – she’s sure she hadn’t yet felt that. She looks at him questioningly, and the motion of his head directs her to look downwards, to where she rests her hand.
Brighter than the North Star on his brow, a red light is glowing in his chest. It shines and flares beyond any of the other pinpricks of light across his shaggy coat, and she knows that it wasn’t there when she saw him as he entered the clearing. She meets his eyes again, her face a mask of pure wonder, and she sees the expression of worry on his surprisingly expressive face deepen, then relax as she smiles, her eyes welling up once more.
She presses her hand to his chest again, and starts as she feels something new – she sees her hand passing through his celestial body, into his chest. She feels him stiffen, tense up, then relax. The feeling of trust hits her, and she marvels at him once more.
She runs her hand along the inside of his coat, each star like a tiny little spark that makes her tingle all over. He shakes, as though drying to dry off, and starlight dances off everything in the clearing for a second. Her hand becomes the centre of his own light show, and she laughs, high and clear. His ears prick up at the beautiful laugh, and his mouth drops open into a grin at the sound he loves.
His girl pulls her hand back, almost leaving his body, but at the last second she stops, and with only the slightest hesitation, she brushes her fingertips over the beautiful, shining red star in his chest.
Pain shoots through her hand.
The fiery star in the centre of his chest burns her soft fingertips and she screams, pulling her hand back sharply, ripping herself free of his dark fur. Tears well in her eyes again, but tears of pain now, hot and sharp, and this time she doesn’t dry them away.
He moves towards her straight away, concern written all over him, but the pain is fresh and in that moment, all she sees is a giant predator, moving towards her. She throws a hand into his chest, hard, as she scrambles backwards, further from him. Confusion and pain radiate off him in great waves as he is pushed away from her.
She sits in the grass, cradling her scorched hand. Turning it, palm upwards, she inspects her fingers one by one, before gently touching them. Another shock of pain rushes through them, red and sensitive, though not damaged.
Through the tears she looks up. Her wolf is still regarding her with that steady grey gaze, his brow furrowed in confusion. She reads pain in his eyes as well – hurt that she would push him away like that, when he came to help. The girl knows he did nothing wrong, but in her panic she finds it hard to trust him, no matter the depth of emotion in his eyes.
He lowers the paw he holds raised in the air, taking a half-step forwards. She pulls away a little, but doesn’t push him away. Slowly, delicately, as though stepping on thin ice over a frozen lake, he lifts another paw, gently moving forward. She flinches again, but stays where she is.
They act this scene out over and over, each time he makes only the tiniest movement, being careful not to scare her – but he never stops, nor takes any step backwards. He always moves forward, to comfort, to protect. Each time, she flinches less and less, until with a final gentle motion he is brushing up against her.
He rumbles, low in his throat, and pushes his huge, furred head against the arm of her injured hand. She goes to move it away from him, but a paw on her wrist stops her. She looks up, and he meets her gaze with soft eyes, a pleading whine springing from his muzzle.
She looks into those eyes, and trusts him.
Lifting her hand, she shows him the redness. He whines again, this time in what sounds like apology – she can feel guilt and shame, coiling from him like smoke from a bonfire – and touches the tip of his nose to the sore skin.
She jumps, a scream already halfway out of her throat before she realises the expected pain never comes. Instead, a pleasant tingle runs through her hand and a laugh bubbles out of her at the odd sensation. Surprised, she cuts off her laugh quickly, but then he licks gently at her fingers, and the giggles fall, unstoppable, from her lips. She can’t help it – it just tickles so much!
Her wolf’s ears twitch at the silvery sound, and he chuffs, sending a puff of air across her skin. She ruffles the soft, short fur on top of his head with her other hand. It wasn’t really him that hurt her anyway, and he took her pain away.
She lies backwards in the grass, looking up at the moon high above. His head rests on her stomach, and she props herself up to look him in the eyes. A question springs to mind, and she wonders aloud what it’s like, up there in the darkness.
This time she doesn’t receive the same clear, obvious emotions she felt from him before. A mixture of thoughts swirl into her consciousness, and he looks away, not meeting her eyes. He inspects the grass, the sky, the trees, but not her. She rests her hand on his shoulder, and at long last he returns his grey eyes to her brown ones. Thoughts spring into her head – not her own, but his, and it becomes clear.
He doesn’t know.
In that heartbeat, she understands. He’s never lived there, only existed. Defined by his search, living only to find what he sought, he saw none of the celestial beauty, none of the points of light and trails of starshine she sees. He saw only blackness, cold, empty spaces that his howls echoed around, with no one to hear. He couldn’t live there, because he couldn’t live, only search, looking for something.
Looking for her.
She shifts her body, lying closer to him. She presses her head against his huge neck, breathing in, trying to push to him the same warmth and love he gives her. The tightened muscles, like cables under the skin, relax, and he snares her once more in the long, warm, flexible length of him.
He feels much more solid, now – less ethereal – and she no longer worries that she may pass through him. She pushes her hand against him, to test, and he grumbles good-naturedly at the intrusion, though he is almost overly solid now, her hand finding no passage. His paw pushes her hand down to his chest, and she gingerly pushes, mindful of the last time. Unlike anywhere else on his body, her hand slips in, and she finds herself cupping the red star at its centre. It doesn’t burn her, this time – she’s used to the heat, and finds she rather likes it.
She retrieves her hand, and brushes him under the chin. Why, she thinks, only his chest? The rest of him as solid as the ground beneath her, that one point alone remains as intangible as the night sky. He looks at her with lowered brows, a reproachful look, and she – not hears, exactly, but senses somehow – his thought. To him it is obvious why. She will always be able to touch his heart, no matter which form he takes.
Her wolf – or Wolfy, she thinks, grinning – rolls over, his paws waving through the air for a brief second before he flattens onto his belly again. Lying prone, he dips his muzzle to the waters of the loch, a pink tongue flicking out to lap at the clear liquid. She dips her fingers into the water next to him and, unable to stop herself, flicks some at him. He interrupts his drinking to stare at her for a second, before breaking into his own joyful grin. She raises her dripping fingers from the water and trails them through the air, water sprinkling off them and turning for brief seconds to tiny stars in the moonlight.
He lifts his wet muzzle and follows the droplets, making as though to catch them in his mouth before letting them splash of his nose. He shakes his head rapidly, sending them flying off into the clearing, then snorting gently as he looks back at her. She doesn’t see the last motion though – she is staring, wide-eyed, at the water. More accurately, at the ripples.
Her incredulous stare turns to him, and she realises quite suddenly that the grass beneath his sprawled form is flattened, pushed down by the furry weight on top. Wordlessly, she shakes her head slightly, wondering what it means. She grins at seeing him affecting the world, the dirt scuffed up at his passing, and slightly embarrassed, he ducks his head, placing a paw over his eyes. He feels slightly shy, but then, his girl is of this world. Now that he’s found her, why would he want to be of any other?
She cradles his head in her hands, worried eyes on him, fingertips gently sliding across the short fur of his muzzle. Will he miss it? The ethereal feeling of lightness, walking across the world without touching it – will he cope with the feelings of weight, of gravity?
He rolls his deep eyes at her, and gently taps her nose with his. He gathers his paws underneath him and stands up, shaking dirt and grass off his fur. His tail twitches at her, signalling to watch.
He shows off for her, taking great delight in doing so. From standing by her side, with a simple bounce of his powerful legs he lands on the other side of the loch, some 30 metres away. He rears up and strides into the sky, walking up and over an invisible bridge before touching down next to her again. Spinning in place, he catches his own tail and coils through himself, before pushing into her legs and sending her sprawling gently to the ground.
He stands over her for a second as she laughs happily, then relaxes and drops to the ground next to her, his head resting on her chest. Gently, lovingly, he flicks his tongue over the pulse in her neck. She understands, now. He changes his nature by choice. The barriers of the physical world are still no obstacle for him, even if – for her – he chooses to endure them.
The artist raises her head very slightly, looking at the horizon, what she can see of it. The faintest glow lights the Eastern sky, like the beginning of a fire, licking along dark paper. Dawn is coming – the night is almost at an end.
She stands up, the wolf following her example. Gathering her pad and pencils, she makes for the trees surrounding them. At the edge, for a moment, she stops, looking back.
Her Wolfy stands in the centre of the grass, tail swishing slowly back and forth. He shifts his weight nervously from paw to paw, unsure of himself. Dare he follow his girl?
She makes his decision for him, holding out her hand and calling him forward.
“Come on, Wolfy! You don’t want to have to chase me, do you?”
He gives a little bounce, then trots forward happily. His girl wants him with her, which suits him fine.
Together, they pace through the woods, until the rushing wind gives way to the noise of cars on tarmac, and the starshine is overtaken by the yellow glow of streetlights. He sniffs the city air curiously, scanning his surroundings with uncertainty. This is a new environment for him. The girl looks at him, and her face softens with a smile – she adores his nervousness, and adores even more that he does not hesitate for a moment before walking with her into this new territory.
They wend their way through the streets, his paws almost silent on the paved surface as he paces next to her. The few passers-by they encounter give her an odd look, to see the slight girl walking past with her hand tangling in the fur of a wolf the size of a horse, but she pays them no heed. He spares them each a single glance, the flash of his grey eyes warning them away from his girl. Usually she feels a little scared, walking through the night-time streets alone, but with her Wolfy she feels as safe as in her own bed, and the heat of him keeps the city cold at bay.
They reach her place, and from her pocket she pulls her keys, unlocking the door. She steps over the threshold, but he pauses, gently brushing the stone step at the entrance with one large pad. A city is another forest, with streetlights for stars, but this is newer still – being inside, a roof instead of a sky. It scares him a little, even if he tries to hide it from her.
She crouches down in front of him and strokes his muzzle, smiling softly. He can’t help but trust her, and he steps through the entrance. His paws slip slightly on the smooth wood floor before he catches himself and adjusts to the new surface – she giggles a little bit, but catches herself in time as he mock-glares at her.
Watching him pace softly, carefully around the small space, littered with her art – drawings, paintings in oils and watercolours, sketches in pencil or charcoal – she can’t help but feel a pang of worry. Even with the love she bears him, and he her, what does the future hold? She bites her lip nervously and stares out the window into the fading darkness.
Her wolf returns to her side, gently ushering her to her own couch, sitting in front of her as she drops into it. Absorbing her panic, her worry, he watches her face calmly as she meets his eyes. Silently, he asks her what she wants – what her perfect future holds. Her hands twist, then tangle into his coat as the answer floods from every part of her. Freedom. Happiness. Safety. To not be hurt. Nothing more specific than that – any future with those, she desires.
He presses his muzzle to her hands – a kiss, of sorts. He looks up at her and she watches his eyes sparkle and dance with light. Those, he can give her, and would never dream of not doing so.
Gently, but insistently, he tugs at her hand, urging her to stand and follow. She watches as he threads his way through the room to stand by a particular work, then, looking back at her, tosses his head to beckon.
His girl cautiously walks over to stand beside him, his tail drumming lightly against her leg. She looks down at the piece he has found – somehow, he has picked her favourite. The creation that sits before them is full of the most beautiful things she could envisage - taken from experience, memory, dreams, or simply desire, this piece is full of everything she thinks perfect. The buildings soar to touch the sky, the landscape makes Eden a featureless desert, and the light that floods the scene somehow both glows and shines at once, illuminating some with a soft, gentle touch, while turning other points to diamonds.
She cannot comprehend how he would know it, but he has unerringly made his way to the piece she loves the most – the world she wishes were.
He touches his nose to the page.
Like the loch she sat by, what feels like an eon ago, the surface ripples and shifts. The colours shimmer, the lines waver for a second before stilling into immobility once more. Again, though, she perceives the strange phenomenon – though the picture is still, the flowers now blow in a slight breeze, and the glinting surfaces now scintillate, flashing as though the light is changing ever so slightly. A light dusting of cloud is blowing over a corner of the sky – a cloud she never drew. The picture is shifting – like the night did when her Wolfy came out of the sky.
She sheds a single tear, rolling like crystal down her cheek as her mouth curves in a smile she is sure will last forever. By her side, the titanic wolf turns his head to look at her questioningly, asking her if she will take that step with him – the same step he took, from behind the scenes, to her.
The artist – creator of this new world – has no words to give. She nods, unable to give voice to an agreement, a love, so strong it tightens her chest like iron bands. With her free hand, the one not wrapped in the ruff of his shoulders, she gathers her pad and pencils – the same one she carried to the clearing. With her art, and her wolf, there is nowhere the two cannot go, whether in this world, his world, or the new one the two have made, they can create anything, can travel anywhere.
Dawn breaks properly, the first rays of the rising sun shining through her window as, with her hand on his neck, the two step forward, into their world. The morning light illuminates the room, catching the dust spiralling through the air and the papers that flutter slightly, as though in a soft breeze. The room is empty of life, yet somehow words hang in the air.
“My Wolfy.”
My Girl.
Published 27th Jan 2016
| Edited 14th Aug 2017
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 0
reading list entries 0
comments 0
reads 1231
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
