Wolf took small jobs along the way in his search. He enjoyed most, was able to sit in a town square or along the road and draw. Being very artistic, people would sometimes buy his drawings. Usually they would ask him to sign them. He would always put a dark back slash in the bottom right hand corner, to please them he would lay his hand upon it and say, “I have signed it, now it is yours.” They would laugh and tease him for being so modest. He wasn’t, just thought the pictures weren’t really that good.
Writing was his passion. His love of words went beyond almost everything. To him it was like the buttery sweet taste of maple syrup, or a warm giving woman on a frosty morning. You know, just good.
Wolf liked to write poetry and would sometimes get lost in the words. The poems always ended up in the bottom of his backpack or crumpled and folded in his pockets. He slept outside under trees, and at times he would use of his papers starting a