"Even a man who's pure in heart And says his prayers by night, May become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms And the autumn moon is bright."

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I know people, I know towns, farms, hills and rivers and rocks, I know how the sun at sunset in autumn falls on the side of a certain plowland in the hills; but what is the sense of giving a boundary to all that, of giving a name and ceasing to love where the name ceases to apply?

— Ursula K. Le Guin