With panting, slobbering wolves where his hands should be, The Man with Wolves for Hands builds shelves, attends an HR meeting, gets drunk in a kiddie pool with his friend The Cowboy, and stumbles into a bacchanalian wake, held in a forest clearing, for a deceased soldier. In The Man with Wolves for Hands, Metaphor folds into allegory, folds into psychological exploration, folds into a meditation on trauma and struggle. These vignettes about a man and his lupine hands explore what it means to be compassionate in a world where perception is tenuous and morality fluid. Elements of myth and folklore anachronistically color the narrative creating a story that winds itself through both the present and some distant, primordial past. Perhaps the spirit of The Man with Wolves for Hands can best be summed up with the some words from Bob Lyle: The best art raises questions. It doesn’t answer them. Hell, if that were the case, we’d still be happy as hunter and gatherers, scrapin’ up a clean and naive livin’, our cave paintings only reports and totally meaningless with no need to progress, no need for metaphor, which, my friend, is the only magic we humans truly possess. Saepe peccamus!