Here I move among the happenings, breathing the miasmas of needing, hearing the the wrenching seizures of solitude and foot fall through the shallows of winter's waters horded in pot-holes. In the dark looks, under the heavy brows of the shadows limping past, needing, I see their eyes are no longer lucid devices. Headlights and Broadways by static amber light and speeding white-blue a boy picks from the gutter not a toy, or a ball, not a coin, but the death of a squirrel holding it high bushy brush tail wire between thumb and forefinger Joy alarms from his lips but there is too much alarm on these streets for others to notice.
...giving all the feels.