A garbage pile casts the unmistakable silhouette of a snarling hound on a patch of sidewalk that usually shines with bits of broken glass and the phlegm of hell bound crack heads. Under normal circumstances I would, perhaps tediously, tiptoe over the specter and I would have no good reason for doing so, but the rum pulsing through the god knows what within my body is a superb ally for the disregard of old habits. Most old habits.
My cigarette breaks at the flick of a finger and I curse my failed attempt at sprinkling stray ash into the frigid air.
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