Some argue

that when Shadow-Thing

became hungry

on that first day of his life,

he did not know he was hungry,

could not identify

the gaping void in his belly,

or the frantic exhaustion

in his muscles.

How could he?

He had never known

his own flesh before,

never suffered its travails

or enjoyed its pleasures.

Shadow-Thing knew nothing,

had experienced nothing,

did not know what he was.

Every moment was a revelation,

he was a toddler in the form of

a monster.

But, others protest,

“What kind of man

knows not when he is hungry,

knows not what food even is?”

That is to say,

these voices shout,

“Shadow-Thing

was no man!”

Shadow-Thing

was a man,

as we shall soon see,

but for now,

as he stepped across the Earth,

his bare feet on the damp soil,

the grass between his toes,

the morning sun

like hot breath on his back,

Shadow-Thing was simply

himself.

Shadow-Thing was hungry,

and he did not know

why he felt the way he did.

When he came upon

a small pond,

and the fat, white goose

that stood next to it,

peacefully,

Shadow-Thing appreciated

the goose for its beauty,

and did not consider

that if he murdered

and consumed it,

he would feel

immense relief.

And so,

having enjoyed

and grown tired

of the goose,

Shadow-Thing

continued on.

Shadow-Thing also

did not know he was thirsty,

his mouth parched as coyote fur,

his forehead beating.

His feet moved enthusiastically,

but chaotically,

the muscles were learning

but still foolish,

and he did not know

where he was going,

or where he should be going,

so his attention was caught by

a Donolian dragonfly here,

a stray morning-fisher flower there,

and he would dash from fascination

to fascination;

but underneath was his discomfort,

his hunger, his thirst,

and a strange,

awe-like fear.

Until he came to the stream.

The babbling brook sang

Shadow-Thing into the woods,

its soothing melody

beckoning, promising.

He stepped down into its bank,

astonished at the water

rushing across rocks,

so fast, and yet never hesitating,

from some unspeakably inexaustible

source.

Immediately he wanted to touch it,

to feel it passing through his fingers,

his lips lilted open,

and whatever liquid

he had left to his body

seeped into his mouth,

which cried out in desire,

though Shadow-Thing

knew no words,

this, this,

this is what I need!

Shadow-Thing fell to one knee,

and cupped the jubilant stream water

in his hands.

It was cold!

So beautifully cold!

He lifted the water to his lips.

Wet! Cold!

He slurped it into his mouth

and it escaped down his throat.

He drank more,

in exaltation,

there had never been

such pleasure

before,

in all of Creation —

if an experience

such as this

was possible,

what else

could there be?

to be continued...