BEING ON the moon makes me feel KIND OF HAPPY

If curiosity killed the cat, disinterest killed the dog. Shadowfax suffered from general disinterest. He would lend an open ear, but he couldn't promise he would remember a word, since his mind was usually elsewhere. And elsewhere was usually drifting listlessly over the ashen, barren fields of the impending apocalypse. His mind wandered there now as he shambled - shivering and sulking - over the slimy grass. He was a forlorn specter, floating aimlessly and endlessly in figure eights. He was in a constant state of searching, but for what? He didn't know. Like a zombie he shuffled. Well, no, at least a zombie had purpose, had desire! Zombies hungered. What was Shadowfax hungry for? He made a feeble attempt to search the rusted lockers of his past, but like an abyssal black hole, there was only nothingness.

A soft sigh escaped his lungs as he stumbled upon civilization. The world was always buzzing, always spinning. Eventually it would spin itself silly, splintering into irreconcilable pieces. The boiling lava pits of the core would swallow up civilization and all of its frivolities. This thought was oddly comforting to him, and he paused his languid gait to stare up at the woeful soul perched atop an impenetrable gray boulder. He blinked simply as she wallowed and mused. Her musings struck him, like ticklish pin pricks, and though he was oddly delighted, he was also terribly confused. Did she really expect anything less? He certainly didn't. There was one thing this world was good at, and that was raining, so he implored, "Are you surprised?"

His pallid face was not unkind, for his inquiry was genuine. In fact, his expression was almost sad. He did not wish for her discomfort, but he thought it was odd that she reacted as if she did not regularly feel such a weight on her shoulders. It was how he felt every day. He was not surprised when it rained because he expected nothing less. This bitter tinge was apparent in his voice like a knife, but the blade's edge was not directed towards her. Always it grated inward, shaving his bones little by little until he would finally crumble like the ash of the future he knew would come. Instead, sitting below and staring up at her with demonic black eyes was a pitiful, white-faced wolf. He was skinny and gray and physically unimposing. His fur was slick with grease. His black tail did not wag.

shadowfax

/ shadowFAX / / 8 yrs / 32 in / 70 lbs / pack / imprint / lucky /