The Pangolin’s layered scales move like synchronized swimmers, protecting his feelings and sensitive stomach. His mind is filled with regrets from missed opportunities during a recent discourse between himself and a certain long-beaked superior that shall remain nameless. The issues surrounding Sand Dune 6C are nothing new and not to be mentioned - even the notoriously low-level Pronghorns know that.
My boot’s government issue sole snags a gap where more sidewalk should be. A lifetime of northeast winters has left this particular strip rigid and chapped. My right foot shoots out in front to compensate, jolting me back to the present, out of my fog. An early morning grey creeps over warehouse rooftops, while a grime-drenched gypsy cab limps past me. The tires don’t move, the car simply slides by shadows of buildings, while dim streetlights guide its path.