Spirit, restless, resides within the magic theater where madmen are titans marked by solitude. A steppenwolf prowling dark roads his howls silent but evident for those that can hear. He thumbs the golden twine knowing it will slip from his grasp becoming hidden till sparks take hold to deliver his illumination- euphoriant, only to fade again- a sorry cycle. Enticed by what he despises, he plunges forward simply to be repulsed, paws compelled to proceed to the next destination. Demian haunted his shadow once. He steeped in the taboo thoughts that the magus spoke aloud to his creeping figure- pleased to indulge in that scarce edification. Lessons for those that can hear listen and learn, the timid left consumed by fear of what is unknown. A rusted key sparkles due to a shimmering light -the pinhole of this souls saturnine reality. Time waits patiently for this valetudinarian to realize the door exists, the keyhole awaiting the turn of his wrist.