Colossus
The night is young and crisp and cold. These hours belong to me: when darkness seeps, becoming impenetrable, amongst the shrubs and trees. I will pluck the earthworms from the ground and rend them, toying with my prey for a while, before snaffling them up with snaggled-teeth and claws. The new home I have found has the stench of the brown, silky slikers, but the sliker has departed, and the home is mine. A korooraloo emits a mournful cry in the trees overhead, and I am watchful, conscious of the theft of what is rightfully mine.
In the act of hunting, in the act of eating, I am lost. All higher thoughts, all other thoughts obliterated. I do not think about my purpose. I am hungry-or-not-hungry, eating-or-not-eating, I have a mate or I do not. I am running, or I am stumbling in forage, or I am still. There is a queer, unnatural brightness, or there is the gloopy, delicious, worm-ridden mud of the dark. The wits among you might accuse my thinking of being monochromatic. You are the ones who choose to clutter and pollute yourselves with things beyond the necessary. I am in tune, at one with the great undulations of the Universe, oscillating with them, and I am free. Can you lay claim to such serenity? (read more)
The night is young and crisp and cold. These hours belong to me: when darkness seeps, becoming impenetrable, amongst the shrubs and trees. I will pluck the earthworms from the ground and rend them, toying with my prey for a while, before snaffling them up with snaggled-teeth and claws. The new home I have found has the stench of the brown, silky slikers, but the sliker has departed, and the home is mine. A korooraloo emits a mournful cry in the trees overhead, and I am watchful, conscious of the theft of what is rightfully mine.
In the act of hunting, in the act of eating, I am lost. All higher thoughts, all other thoughts obliterated. I do not think about my purpose. I am hungry-or-not-hungry, eating-or-not-eating, I have a mate or I do not. I am running, or I am stumbling in forage, or I am still. There is a queer, unnatural brightness, or there is the gloopy, delicious, worm-ridden mud of the dark. The wits among you might accuse my thinking of being monochromatic. You are the ones who choose to clutter and pollute yourselves with things beyond the necessary. I am in tune, at one with the great undulations of the Universe, oscillating with them, and I am free. Can you lay claim to such serenity? (read more)