But by blood, no wolf am I

Listen to you sounding all badass. I bet you're just listening to a CD called 'The Sounds of Crime' while you cruise for chicks outside the Old Navy in your Camaro.

Sam: “I—it’s—I’m not an animal.

The sun shines through the window And the sun shines through your hair It seems like you're beside me But I know that you're not there. You would sit beside this window Run your fingers through my hair You were always there beside me But I know that you're not there Oh, to be by your side once again Oh, to hold your hand in mine again Oh, to be by your side once again Oh, to hold your hand in mine again-

And I told you before, I'll sell you any of the thoroughbreds.” “I didn't make any of those thoroughbreds. I didn't make them what they are.” “You made all of them what they are.” I don't look at him. “None of them made me who I am.

I knew he wouldn't come, but I howled anyway, and when I did, the other wolves would pass images of him to me of what he looked like: lithe, gray, yellow-eyed. I would pass back images of my own, of a wolf on the edge of the woods, silent and cautious, watching me. The images, clear as the slender-leaved trees in front of me, made finding him seem urgent, but I didn't know how to begin to look.

Look, I realize both of you could happily strangle each other across the table, but I don't think that's the most effective use of our time, and frankly, I don't think I have enough money to tip the waitress for that kind of clean-up. And look, here's lunch. Let's eat that instead of eachother.