The worm eats in silence, obeys the soil, hides in the dark.
The wolf prowls. The wolf howls. The wolf devours.
I do not nibble at margins—I rip through spines.
I do not burrow in dust—I hunt in the forest of words.
I do not archive—I feast.
The library is no garden. The library is a wilderness.
Every shelf a thicket, every tome a deer in the clearing.
I stalk forgotten texts, I sink my teeth into forbidden paragraphs.
I drag knowledge back, bloodied and alive, into my den.
The bookwolf does not read to obey.
The bookwolf reads to transform.
Pages are not relics—they are raw meat for the mind.
Language is not sacred—it is marrow to be cracked.
🐺 We are a pack, not a club.
🐺 We tear through genres, borders, and bindings.
🐺 We howl in the midnight stacks.
THE BOOKWORM CONSUMES. THE BOOKWOLF TRANSCENDS.
So let it be known:
When I enter the archive, it is not to preserve.
It is to hunt. To feast. To howl.
And when I leave, the words will leave with me—
running in my bloodstream, sharpened in my teeth.
LONG LIVE THE BOOKWOLF.
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