In a slumber, I dream of foxes. Their lanky bodies casting about in my head, hiding in the shadows. "I'm the one who brings you here," I call out to the red figures. "I bring you here because I love you."
"Our intentions are undecided," they spit back. "But we trust you." It took me a millenium to figure out their ways. They are made of little contradictions that are manifested just for your confusion. You decide if they mean well; they're not the ones who care about their meaning. Only you decide your perspective of them.
I really love the company of my pure, little foxes. They'll curl up against me and share their warmth with me; sometimes they'll sneak back into the shadows if it's in their best interest. But I love those little foxes, so I let them do as they please. I'm always here for them, for they help me.
Sometimes they'll speak to me, aptly. I'll frustrate them with my questions, but I hope they understand that I mean well. I love their whispers of wisdom and hisses of praise, even if I don't quite grasp the meaning of what they say. I'll beg them to explain.
I love my little foxes.