Drug of Choice

Pre-dawn. Minimal light shines from the crisp fingernail clipping hanging where the moon, in a week or two, will be full again. White streetlights and my huge dog are the only protection I have against the faceless thugs and bandits I’m convinced are blended in, chameleon-like, with the intricate architectural details of each building we pass.
My dog’s ears throw happy, floppy shadows on the sidewalk. I look from his actual ears to his shadow ears and back again. And again. I don’t know what makes me high more: the real ears I can touch or the shadows I can’t.