She would write with a lupine hunger, hunting the words into the hot breath of the day’s ending. The feral imaginings of her dreams given life in these moments, as the sun cosmic tethers clipped, fell from the sky.
This creative hunger gnawed at the edges of her. Ravenous, her fangs would grow and cast glints, catching shards of the failing light. She would stalk the words quielty, circling them, fearful and frightened, slinking low across the forrest floor of her flat.
Rare nights when the words kept themselves hidden in bushy thickets, she would howl and spit hot breath at the empty pages in naked attempt to scare them from the underbrush.
Patiently, she hunted. Dilligent and dogged, she would embrace the pangs, letting them swallow her whole. Her intincts would flash, the moment she needed them, a gutteral growl, that would pin her prey to the edge of her periphery.
This half-glimpse would be all she’d need. She a snarling lunge, she’d sink her teeth deep into the anatomy. She’d shake the words free from their camoflauge, hers now to devour.
On this night, she hunted still. From her window, she prowled the lowlight of the approaching darkness, but the words elluded her still, just out of sight, hidden from gaze in the cool dark catacombs of the city beneath her.
She drifted and dreamed. Of the hunt. Of prey of dusks past.
The words, “she that writes the night”, escaped her lips, the sound of its intonation fighting to voice iteslf again and again, but the echo of it anatomy was was swallowed whole by the hot breath of the still night.