from flat on your back

it's thursday the 13th and the moon is half-full and tonight, at mid-night, the wolfman will sit at home and question the meaning of his life, sipping tea in his new robe he just picked up at a yard sale, and he'll wonder if life is what he's made of it and does everything that seems that is just seem like that because he's made it there and doesn't he often get confused as to the many different perceptions he has on life when he just looks at it from different moods. maybe it's just those moods that need to be molded, refined. life is how he feels. he sets down his mug and reaches for a pencil to write that down and grabs his small tablet of paper that has, written across the front of it in black, 'recollections, recognitions and regrets.'

ah, a friend comes over, and they greet and note each other's physical appearances (or lack of keeping up thereof, ha!), and mention their days, and sit and invite to sit, and talk and interact, and even talk and interact about the subject of thinking and about the subjects of thinking, and then, in front of the living room fire, play chess, and get frustrated and the friend leaves to fellowy goodbyes.

it gets late and the wolfman needs sleep, but first he takes a few moments to pray. he activates a pleasant, strong part of his brain and focuses on keeping it activated. he chants words from habit to stave off distraction and, in effect, he prays to himself, to the part of him that is strongest, to help the part of him that just simply has the most stamina during the day.