The good days are the ones where the wolves are sleeping. You can’t make a noise and you have to tip-toe but they leave you alone.
Sleeping like that they resemble innocent children. They sleep, you sleep.They let you rest.
The bad days are the ones where they are all awake and hungry. They are too sick, too famished to be a menace. They are just skin and bones and they cry the howl of the dying. That deep desperate voice than more than a scream is a hole.
The bad days are the ones when they are thirsty and starving and sick. And you don’t have anything to give them so you just sit in the middle and starve with them.
The bad days bite, their teeth like glass. Their breath rotten.
The bad days: A pack of mighty wolves giving up.