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A ram sat upon a small chair, the chair sat upon a porch. The moon's watchful gaze judging him as he simply gazed into the cold winter. Nothing better to do, and the wool provided enough comfort. Soft peace of the wind, white flakes silent and without anxiety. One must be watchful for foxes, mean creatures with no appreciation for life; they only care for satiating their maniacal bloodlust.

The sheep stared at two pairs of dancing fireflies, waltzing; one is red, one blue, to their slow rhythm, and them growing with size and passion. They meet the sheep, the eyes of a malformed goat with perverse features and terrible proportions. Four eyes above which a crown of horns. It, too, was as silent as everything else. Earth itself was deaf. It interrupts, guttural voice.

"Good day."

Of course one wouldn't know how to respond to this, how would one respond to doom anthropomorphized and wearing a mourning dress no less? It seemed apathetic to the glinting dagger stuck into its own horn. Two pairs of upper canines eagerly jut from the monster's mouth. A small beard on its chin moved with the jaw once more, and it repeated its greeting. It over-pronounced its stops.

"Good day."

"Good day." Is finally reciprocated.

Everything becomes mute once more. The wood creaks with a third hoof placed upon it. Fourth.

"Why are you sat out during this time?"

A mumbled bleat of anxiety.

"You've already proven you can speak, don't be sheepish."

"Foxes."

"I hate foxes. Why would one be out for them?"

A half-rest in the song of conversation, subito, "to shoo them from livestock."

"Keen on stopping murder?"

"Something like. Do you intend otherwise?"

The goat stood two meters away from the sitting sheep, analyzing his features and being assayed themselves. They both sported horns, the goat doubly so, but of unequal size. Far different to the Hebridean's four perfect ones. It amplified the height of it so very much, but sans the crown of bone they would be eight feet tall were it not for the hunch to stand under one roof. It didn't answer. The answer was obvious. The answer was painted upon her face as it was painted upon her clothes.

"I thought death would ride upon a pale horse."

"I rode upon pale snow."

"And why do I meet my end now?"

"Because that's what I should do."

"I'm innocent."

"I know."

"Do you hate me?" The Hebridean's voice accelerated.

"No."

"Then why kill me? I do nothing wrong, there is no personal grudge. I am healthy and I won't die any time soon; I'm young. All I--"

"Sh. You're dying because I say so."

The ovine one swallows nervously,

"When?"

"Perhaps before the sun rises. You have time."

"I'm unsure if I should thank you."

"Don't. May I come inside? I set a fox burrow in blazes earlier."

"You really don't like them."

"I don't have any reason to lie about such things."

"Come inside."

The sheep stood, back as straight as a drilled soldier's, hands and hooves trembling with slow movements and short steps. Oppositely, the goat just stood patiently. There was no rush, the sun set shortly ago. It was the white season. More than half a day remained, about.

The pine door's hinges made protest to the new guest, its cries being dismissed; it was no one's place to listen to creaking whines of logic and reason. The metal stove was fed a morsel of cedar. A tea kettle placed upon it, and two dainty cups placed upon the center table of the little cabin. Two stale biscuits on the saucers, an attempt to perhaps placate--or humor it into mercy.

As if to address the matter of the doorframe, the goat's horns seemed to have become slicked back. It became clear the eight horns formed an octopus of bone, one that would mimic a gable headdress, one that would mimic a star, and an iron maiden. The civilized monster was not of fixed shape, and had looks that shamelessly spat lies of all sinful shades. It embodied all sorts of self-indulgence, and seemed shameless regarding this fact. It seated itself at the pulled-out chair, barely fitting on it.

"How very polite you are to a murderer. Inviting me in so you'll be warm when you cease." It quipped.

"So you admit it is wrong, what you intend to do?"

"Many things I do are wrong, I should know that best of all."

"Do you do them because of their depravity?"

The more hircine of the two pondered for a moment, to phrase its words, to be direct, to be simple. So the mortal one's feeble mind would comprehend.

"Depravity is merely a side-effect. I do what I do because that is what makes me live. Is it wrong for one to act upon their own desires? What life is living with strict rules? Is the key of joy not disobedience? Damn all those who stand in one's way, and who deny themselves what they secretly, truly want. For it is those who are without that shun what they wish. Why not praise one's pathetic standard of life when they are unable to grasp greatness and glory?"

The sheep thought silently to the outburst of philosophy. Whilst it was true that seizing life to its fullest qualified all the seven sins, there was an issue of impulse. Would one sooner murder a child in its crib than nurture unacted desires? It seemed so passionate about the matter. Sin was not merely just self actualization, but involved the suffering of others. Was it so self absorbed it didn't picture it?

"Do you feel empathy?"

"I very much do. I have romantic partners and pets."

"Do you make them suffer when you want to?"

"Sometimes confessedly. Perhaps it should be made clear my own appetite is acting my desire."

"You starve if you don't kill?"

"Not kill. Just what I wish to do, wish for. Hopes and dreams are my food, and what happens to those who go without food too long? I can fast, but what good is that? Today, right now, I want to kill you, and I will engage in that gluttony even if it means this dance beforehand. With that nutrition I may fast for the purposes of those I care about."

The kettle screamed: enough of all this! Time for the world to become deaf once more and to hold its tongue in the face of atrocity. A woolly host takes the drink to the table, to pour into cups with old tea bags to infuse the water with the taste of gentle, softly-spoken despair. One biscuit was missing, and one is still on the table. Stress kills appetite. Stress begs one to gorge themselves for escapism. Both unhealthy. There was no winning move. There is no winning move. There has not been one at all since the queen put the black king in zugzwang.

A respite. A sip of tea, steam wafting into a woolly face. The other mimics, a beard hanging just below the bottom of the cup.

"Not only your philosophy, but your biology encourages immoral action? Are you a twisted monster that feeds into itself in a vicious cycle of degeneracy?"

"Alright, first off, I find your language highly offensive and rude. Secondly, yes; if that bothers you, then you can try to kill all of my kind and everything even remotely related, but you won't do that. You're only one weak thing that will soon not be."

"Oh, you're the one offended? When I have hours to live, not by any malady, but by another's hands? So that they may choose to spare their personal whore?"

The demon smirks, "I like you, but hyperfixations are not very easily ignored. I can assure you the people I am not killing are better people than I. I won't argue about the value of lives and the superiorities and inferiorities between different thinking creatures; those conversations are trainwrecks."

"Just as your existence is?"

"I'm giving you a while to live."

"Are you merely marinating that desire, so it'll be so much more nutritious and satisfying when you finally end me?"

The monster halts, looking down. It is quite the little clever wooly thing, isn't it? It perhaps did earn those horns, even if that's not how it worked for little mortal things. It understood quickly, or was that just its frustrations leading to bold desperate claim? Was it brilliance and shimmer birthed by pressure? Strange thing. A frown meets the Hebridean. The smug, regal and noble demeanor falls apart. The disguise of a composed self becomes little more than disheveled rags dyed lust and onyx.

"I guess I did do that. It's one of those things you unconsciously do."

"I suppose I shouldn't be offended. You're making the most of your meal. Head-to-tail with your own compulsions," he smacks his lips, "it's a very neat trick. Are you going to change your mind about killing me?"

"Likely? No. Hopefully it's clear I'm not particularly happy being here either."

"Oh! Woe to the murderer!"

It pauses, biting its lip, an empty teacup crashes onto the saucer on the table. She begins to display emotion finally beyond organized indifference or jest. There is honesty. It is as clear as ice, as desolate, miserable, and pink as winter. Composure has fallen apart in such an extravagantly mundane manner, and she broke down.

"I feel guilt, lamb. Often. I woke up and I took myself hostage ever since. I play the delicate balancing game of proper planning and reckless hedonism. I do things I don't even like doing, because I have the compulsion to do so. I don't like killing random creatures, especially not those reminiscent of those I dare say I 'love'. I am sorry you suffer for my own nature."

No one could blame the sheep for falling into silence. A rest sixteen beats in length. The monster wasn't a hedonist. It was not prideful at all, it was envious of the self-controlled one. It was not enjoying itself. It was in despair equal to that of their partner of the night. Neither were happy with what would happen. Neither could convince the murder from not taking place. The goat had no ability to stop it. The ram had no ability. It was clearly hopeless and antagonizing the one bearing a curse had no real purpose anymore.

"How often do you tell others this?" He asked. In a husher, quieter tone; he was as ashamed as the goat. It was not only aging the desire to best savor it when it was satisfied, it was hesitating. Was it hesitating more than stuffing the obsession fat like a goose? Or did it desire foie gras more than morality?

"Not often. I suppose I'm unique among my kind for my conscience. It brings me to interesting places. Maybe we all secretly self-loathe for our inability to coordinate even our basic functionality."

Nod nod.

Sharp claws come up and the middle two touch at the monster's jawline. It opens up, clearly as lost in thought as the other hooved one, "Thank-you, you seem to have adapted to this quickly."

"I don't have a choice. Death comes for me whenever, unless I do terrible things I'm not intending to, in which case I'll still die, just not 'naturally', whatever nature be. Is this a natural death?"

"No? It's a murder, a murder is not natural."

"Well, probably, but wolves feasting upon an elk is natural. It's just how things are. It's easier to cope when one views it that way. You have a wolf's mouth regardless. I've always been, and am, a small prey. I suppose I'll soon not be one."

"I suppose so." A slow, mezzo-piano voice responds.

"You... don't want me to give up? You sound upset about that."

"No, not really wanting you to give up, I don't think. It's easier when someone rages against you, or tries to attack you in preemptive self-defense. It makes it easier to justify yourself later." Goat averts her gaze once more, and begins to refuse to speak further. The sheep allows it for a moment before asking.

"What's it like, in that skull? In that mind, assuming you have one to which I can relate? A stream of thoughts and feelings."

"Do you really want to know?" A sheepish nod back, she sucks in air through her teeth, "Ceaseless mayhem across my conscience. Myself in proper and my body endlessly fighting. I am two beings pretending to be one by my dominance over what lay within me, yet it must never be conquered, that's how I die. I find myself spinning with thousands of thoughts, I forget who I am and where I am, just desires. I see the things to do, I could do, would do, should do, must do. I began finding myself in a fever dream which I have not left, however many years I have been in this world. The world tears itself apart before me for it flatters me with mimicry. I saw the fox and then a crackling bonfire. I hate this existence and drive to do things as much as I hate myself." The monster's biting their own claws, and fingers, and knuckles.

"And that philosophical spiel earlier was merely defending yourself and your actions, trying to rationalize the worst of what you did. What if you resolved to stop? What happens if one of your... disposition resolves to act counter to it?"

"I wonder about that. Wouldn't I die instantly the moment I first wanted to do something by both taking greater precedent until I'm devoured by starvation of my desire for gratification and to be a better creature? Or would I starve to death, unable to feed myself, nothing satiating me?" Red and blue eyes look out the window. Still biting, biting.

"Maybe if you wanted enough to be a better person, your rejection of one thing would still lead to net positive."

"That's a possibility. It's if that is a wise enough decision to resolve to become better, and if abandoning such a dream would kill me even if it was starving me."

"If you did so now, it would not mean very much though, would it? You still desperately want to kill me. You--I, there's no real point of return is there? I die. You go on, maybe try that. Maybe it does kill you and you never harm anyone dear to you. You end the psychotic nightmare of compulsions and fixations, stuck doing things you hate because you must. Y-- You're bleeding! Stop that!" She bit through her digits, a jet-colored, snotty, bubbling fluid trailing her arm, and on her lips and canines. "Sorry!" clamors both members of the chorus in the cabin, before both resolve to cease speaking like this. They both look at the stain on the tablecloth, then the hole in it. The sheep sighs, "I don't think we both have much more to say, I think you should get it over with." "...If you insist. Do you want to die now, honestly? Nothing, anything on my part you want?" I say,

"I don't. I can't expect anything I say to you to be carried through, because you might be caught with overwhelming wish to disregard or betray that last note. It's not like anything after death means anything for me with that lack of connection to anyone, anything else. I suppose I am ready. Are you?"

The goat wipes her hands on the tablecloth, and speaks, "Stand up."

I stand up, but not of my own accord. My legs bring me closer to the ceiling. I am close to the ceiling, I stand up and I keep rising out of my chair. I lose my ties to the ground, I am a bird of wool rather than feathers. I hit the ceiling many times. I am overtaken by dark, and I feel a great, powerful warmth. I do not have the energy to feel upset, I cannot be afraid and angry. I am missing my mouth, I have no eyes, I have no wool. I am nihil. A slow aching pain covers my non-body entirely. I breathe dark matter. I'm standing up. I am surrounded by up. A wave of relief, followed by regret, followed by melancholy, repeatedly smack the shorelines of my conscience. The seas of my higher mind evaporate. I am only my lower, most basic self. I do not feel worry, for I cannot imagine worry. Words and language have lost any meaning, as I feel both numbness and lack of the abilities to know them. I do not remember my name, nor my face, nor the last face I saw. I am. I was. I may be, again. I am not.