Master lupine winds are howling. Pipelined through the building bordered street funnels. The hanging pots on the fire escape bent ninety degrees. Mentally trying to coax the shiny fairy pinwheel out it's potting soil perch. Sinister minion of the dayball, focusing the death feed of bright hell into my peaceful morning face. Fly damn you, fly.

Forceful gales invigorate. Blasting my sheets with news from the clouds. Fond of waking to a heady breeze. Figured this would be a decent day.

The weather that ameliorates the common denominator ain't friendly. Not friendly to me. I prefer the atmosphere others cower from in their hermetically sealed offices. Freedom of feet. No crowding of my chill saunter. Beach felchers can run and hide. The taiga spiked double helix residing in my chest rejoices with the giddy wagging ferver of a bounding labrador chasing snowballs. Yummy yummy mulled air.

The marching winds have knocked loose arbor accessories somewhat sooner than they were prepared for. Quite a decent cluster of widow makers on the surrounding walk of Thompson Square park. Slighty mossed fresh snapped dead branches peppered my path. The octagon interlocked slate stones perfect background for these deceased aerie dwellers. Strange looks from mommies rolling their plastic encoffined babies past me as I squat down to get a better look at the knobbly wood.

The ginkos departing with melting green leaves. Snaking masses of ochre and pea lustfully intertwined on the pavement. Tried to materialise a camera in my pocket. Been having this vision of a lonely Gotham pictorial.

Gotham is perfect for the lonely. I adore being lonely. I hold onto my alone jealously against the world clique of pairing everyone up. Fresh tourists miss the whole idea. They marvel at the ant colony coursing in and out of glass megaliths and rescued gilded terra cotta. The glory of New York everlovin City is how alone one is here.

Partially don't wanna record it. If I expose what nourishes my mind I might spoil it. Best way to destroy your favorite local is to proclaim how glorious it is. The bridge and tunnel invade at a whisper of juice and cred. They don't respect the lonely. Controlled by the anti chill, they crowd in and destroy it. They bring the mold. Incapable of creating a culture back in their own watered down lands they can only besmirch the satisfaction of natives.

Still, the serpent orgy of fallen fauna would have made a sweet pic. As well as the constant pedestrian snaps I glimpse on a ticking beat basis. Would my celebration of those wonders betray, vaunt or praise them? Literary photography I already do. I suppose the point is moot.