Honeycomb

[mishalak]

I love the way it gives so easily under my teeth like some exotic angular and delicate fruit. The rich sweetness pours forth with the whole flavor sealed in by wax that could not be saved by a simple jar. And as I crush the cells with my tongue the snatches of foresight come. I see for a moment a wolf covered in blood, shapes by firelight, and myself crouched and hurt in a circle of salt. And I know a name, Woodbridge. That might be who I am looking for, but the other cryptic images bother me as usual. Foresight is often like that; half useless until the moment it comes upon you.