"Wolves," he started, the word coming awkward off his tongue. Poetic type talk wasn't really his strong suit. Symbolism, stories, and junk. He was the sort who usually grinned and said something witty or just plain non sequitur with a liberal touch of sarcasm when people tries to get silk tongued on him or ask a serious question he didn't feel like delving into. And he didn't often feel like diverging too much. But he could have patience with an old man once at least.<br/><br/>"-and coyotes alike stare at the moon."<br/><br/>The next part was what made him shuffle uncomfortably though, and stare from the motorcycle over to the building.<br/><br/>"Maybe both."<br/><br/>It was acrid on his tongue.<br/><br/>"Maybe neither yet, with a bit of luck."<br/><br/>He was still holding out. Still trying. But there were things that were just beyond his power, and as long as he didn't find some one else who could, and would, do it for him, well. Hopeful was all he could really be. Not convinced.