How old?

How parched with time’s passage?

Eleven years.

So say Grendel and Loki.

Eleven years old.

Wise men, learned men, erudite men.

Men of wisdom and understanding.

Predators capable beyond their years.

Felines too knowing to acknowledge the primitive troglodytes of our species, the demanding catastrophes of wishful thinking who define the errant essence of humanity.

Knowing.  Comprehending.  Omniscient.

This is the company I keep, the definition of my being writ upon the brows of masters well beyond that which people know.

So happy birthday, Grendel and Loki!

Happy birthday indeed.

Teach me, you beasts, and let me sip from the cup of your mastery.

[I’m two days late; I deserve to pay the price of insolence]

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