It takes me 10 minutes to walk from home to work at the downtown Starbucks, and lots of homeless crazies roaming the streets.
With the thin layer of ominous clouds above and the absence of traffic, maybe I should be terrified of the presence of darkness walking toward me.
He has something in his hand. Is it an Ice Pick or maybe a Knife? Is this the first time in my life, that I will have to defend myself from being murdered by one of these schizophrenic night crawlers? Maybe a dog told him to kill me.
As he comes up to me, he politely asks me for a cigarette. I tell him I don't smoke, but here's a dollar for not puncturing my trachea.
That deep feeling in my gut or the sense of impending doom is actually gas from 
