Being sporadic is as life-like as just being. This is me, and why I don't try to find the spelling of the Husky race from Alaska south (Ididierade?) that I've only ever heard of in dreams.

*I dreamt last night that I killed a man, and that I was being deceived by a friend.*

I appear, then disappear, then leave a scent that wafts in from the back porch at exactly the moment you'd hoped I was gone. But sometimes there's no wind, and we all feel lucky.

*If you don't tell what you feel in dreams, is it deception?*

I once dreamt I had no scent. I was devastated. I usually stink to at least low Heaven; not a hippie thing, I just like my odor, and do try to keep it in check for others. But it was gone. I was scentless. Where was my definition? Where was I? How could I be felt, tasted? It was a nightmare.

*Are dreams fears, or realizations? Are dreams planted to help us learn, or seeds of destruction? Are we sowing our own downfalls? Are dreams the key to entropy and change, the realization, the purpose of life, or do they simply burp out of a non-digested bit of meat in the small intestine and into our minds when the cat licks our faces?*

Right now, I must put on deodorant. I will smell like something, but not me. But something. This change from me to perfume, me to acceptable, it's challenging. It's sporadic, my acceptance of this. Sometimes, I like being a thick funk in Degree's clothing. Mostly, I prefer to be judged on my scent more than anything else about me. I know it's the most honest I can possibly be.

Ask the wolves.
Ask the wolves.

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