Amaterasu incarnate, I am a wolf roaming the land, gathering my powers these last several days to vanquish the eight-headed evil. I am stopped by a warrior, who spells out — letter by letter in halting couplets — the dangers I’ve already been apprised of by everyone else in my acquaintance. My traveling companion and worldly guide, a sprite and sometime painter, is tired of being taken for a naif and mounts a vehement self-defense. Warrior and sprite are arguing. Myself, I am tired. I am lying down.
I can run, jump, bark, bite, and dig in the earth. I can beckon the sun and the stars, I can cause trees to bloom and lily pads to spring from the depths, and I can crumble walls with a flourish of firecrackers. I can step outside of time to slice foes in two. But in the language of men, I cannot speak, and it is my curse to endure the conversation of others, which I experience as though trapped in a box, letters dripping in like drainwater from the world above. It exhausts me. I am tired.
I am resting my head on a carpet of grass. I am dreaming of creation.