***

Saito died an alcoholic sitting on the veranda as an old official,
His granddaughters used chopsticks to clean up the drool that came out of his mouth.
It's a nice peaceful death.
He was the only real wolf of us.
We weren't wolves.
Or maybe we were.
A pack of wolves glided lightly and boldly behind your sled in the snow,
So shoot, Dr. Bulgakov, opium?
Sure, a hot bath
that you can't be surprised was nice in front of a blazing fireplace.
you've described us correctly-- great writer.

I'm left-handed, too, and my grandfather was a left-handed guitarist,
I needed an extra life.
I'm ambidextrous now and we can do it again.
Past present and future are one place, you know.
You're the one who betrayed him? Imagine I don't care about your name.
Ouija!? What the hell is this now? I'm just asking.
It has to do with the amount of alcohol I'm drinking. I've already figured that out.

50 kilos of my weight and half a liter of whiskey has that effect.
You're the one with the jockey figure, and you have no figure at all,
Unlike my superior shape, by the way.
Saito, you should have and you could have. Why?