Stavanger Bay what is ruin if not the body becoming aware of itself

Witchdoctor pauses mid-chew, swallowing the mouthful of seaweed he’d chewed into a paste as unforgiving, scorching fiery gaze zeroes in on the ink blot that has come into his line of sight, looking a bit like an overgrown drowned rat. Brazenly, she calls to the madman who lowers his head to tear off another strip of seaweed and chew it with arrogant leisure, a indifferent cant to his head though he is horribly attentive to her, studying her unabashedly and without hidden intent. She is young, but a child to the Witchdoctor whose ears pivot back to rest at half mast atop his skull, hackles bristling as he swallows his second mouthful of seaweed. For a stretch of seconds he contemplates not answering her …though whether it is because he does not understand the foreign tongue in which she called out to him with or because he simply doesn’t want to is unclear. Perhaps, he admits to himself, it’s a bit of both. Unfortunately, it’s too little too late to pretend as if he hadn’t heard her, as if he doesn’t see her though the spirits screaming like banshees in his head are deafening at the worst of times. And they are defiantly worse today.

Foolish girl, ignorant girl, nosy girl. They scream and shriek and it becomes too unbearable for the coywolf. “Sssshhhh! Shut up! Be quiet!” He snarls aloud to the phantoms in his head, letting out a noise of relief and satisfaction when their voices of a eerie crescendo quiet down. “What do you want?” Witchdoctor demands of her gruffly, finally verbally acknowledging her presence with a curl of his lips. Can’t a man yell at the voices in his head and eat his seaweed in peace anymore?