The way Little Miss Perfect tells it, you'd think I was head of a gang of street thugs when I was a kid. We weren't thugs, we were twelve. All we wanted was some prize money, or at least a bit of ... [+]
to jump through our chaste window,
carry us over the midnight snow
under a far moon?
Dare we—at this stage in the old game—dare
to feel the galloping charge
of hot breath, rough hair?
Outside our window the dreamwolf passes,
hungry, unconcerned with us.