It does not feel as cold outside early in the morning as it actually is. The circulatory system is still sluggish, and one stumbles a bit as one wanders around with one's pipe. Car traffic is sparse, as at that hour are also the dog walkers. The man with the placidly dignified pittbulls walks by on the other side of the street; the dogs recognize me better than he does, possibly because of their sense of smell. That is likely the tobacco.
The livid anti-smoker from last night would probably do that visually. She was too far away to smell bupkes. Quite likely she gets upset over many other things too, and is probably a real joy to live with.
I suspect she keeps a dead parakeet in a cage.
Her entire existence must be fraught.
Anti-smokers who have fits at fifty feet outdoors have too little going on in their lives. There is an emptiness there. The void howls. And, quite possibly, their little dog died, constipation and acid indigestion make their lives miserable, there is too much mixed dancing by far, and the happiness of little children offends them immeasurably. They belong in Berkeley.
Very many people in this city have "issues".
For some, medication is the cause.
For others, a cure.
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