There's a dull drumming a music to all things and sometimes it seems like I'm the only one who can hear the rhythm. Like how the lights radiate vibrato violins and the lawnmower outside sings opera. Or how the crickets at night, with their apparent music chirp a lullaby for the Wild Things.
The Wild Things aren't strictly monsters made of hoof and horn, but sometimes they are children with the soul of a wild horse or a mountain lion. Sometimes they are women who dreams have never been stuck in twilight. Sometimes they are men who wish for something more.
Sometimes they are creatures with no body. Just a soul incarnated as a central being. Sometimes the Wild Things aren't really things at all, but songs and stories told to babes who wander too far from their mothers sometimes they are just animals ones we can't see nor hear nor smell. Ones we can only imagine in our wildest, most fruitful dreams.
The Wild Things, they don't have one place where they all go, like the stories foretold. Instead, they have many safe places lairs and hideaways and crypts and haunts all around us. Sometimes, those places are within us.
The music of the Wild Things. Not everyone can hear. Only other Wild Things can listen to it. And as such, I have forgotten my duties as a young woman on an earth full of human pests and resumed my life as a Wild Thing with my hideaway as underneath the clothes in my closet. I could build a tunnel down through the ground and connect my crypt with those of the other Wild Things so that we may dance and sing our songs together in a cave beneath the world.