My observer bone was tickled all day. Deliberately pacing over street gratings imagining morlock dwellers down below rubbing their hands and licking their lips eagerly anticipating the first pedestrian to succumb to the intertwining metal's eventual failure. Wondering if pigeons want people to get out of their way us much as I want them out of my way. Speculating on the moderating sight line of the joggers on top of the NYU sports complex, as they run revolutions in the chain linked gated track.

The eyedrops my pharmacist ordered finally ended their extended out of stock status. Didn't much mind going to the pharmacy repeatedly as the Russian counter girl conjured up an erotic Ural chorus to well up in my pants, breathing in brisk untainted pine scrubbed air in unison, gazing upon the widespread Russian steppe countryside as we fuck each other to a fevered and Slavic screaming pitch. Bonus would be if she can make borscht as scrumptious as my granma or myself.

Persisting image of the grenade scarred lion from a zoo in Afghanistan refuses to stop bothering my mind. Emaciated figure, ribs fully visable, hobbling out of his den. Blinded in one eye, char spots scattered over his muzzle. He had a look on his face suggesting that he was confused by his instinct to survive conflicting with his euthanasia desperation. Soldier who rescued him patting him on the head, no predatory threat whatsoever. Had to look away as my stomach wrenched and eyes watered. I'm sure the last thing on dude's mind as he was roaming the savannah, scent of prey in the breeze, commanding the respect of his pride, that he'd be powerless staring at bars and subject to the ignorance of some slime soldier's shrapnel. I'd kick the fucker's ass for him.