OR IS IT STIR CRAZY?

Late last night I stepped outside for a bit. Everything was wet. We've had a lot of rain this week -- it started sprinkling when I left the bakery where I had enjoyed teatime -- and in consequence the air felt cold, especially with the breeze.

Keep still, in the doorway of a closed business, and just pretend you aren't watching the unbalanced individual nearby building an impossible structure with broken planks and a found bookcase. He seems happy, and obviously oblivious to the frigid temperature.
And by not moving, the air inside your clothes won't shift and left in the cold.

Man, that was a darn good smoke. Despite the weather.
Mixed red and blonde flake, minor condimentals.

Imagine watching a boat in a placid subtropical bay. The fisherman's nets hang into the water from the two low diagonals, seagulls wheel overhead (like in real life) waiting for a dead fish. Or perhaps they're planning to attack the crazy man and peck him limb from jangly limb, like a hotdog snatched from a little child's claws just after purchase, leaving the tyke weeping and desolate. Oh, the yummie-salty-greasy!

My hotdog, mine!

When I spend too much time outside in this weather, it does queer things to my head.

Plus it makes me itchy. Must be a circulation thing.


No wonder all those people on the street are stark raving bonkers.
Their minds are frozen, and they're missing their hotdogs.



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