Swagger Wagger Swoon

H-E is not a mother, nor has she intended to become one.

She had the boobs for it, but surprisingly, motherhood was not what her boobs were prized for.

She flees 9 East 71st Street — upset.

Almost weeping, but fighting the weeping, whiping it away in a gesture of cross guard.

The surveillance cameras of God and Thrownness, of the ones the personified eye of 9 East 71st Street has pointed, phallus-like, phalanx-like on East 71st Street, capture the gesture as defiance. From the shifted view of 14-16 East 67th, a different angle,

What East 71st Street has discarded, 14-16 East 67th recognizes as an opportunity.

Opportunity to be exploited.

Opportunity for investment, investment in the Garden of Eden, for hothouse flowers, or just hot needing housing.

Then H-E, in her discomfiture, sees little child (henceforth L-C) curled up on the only warmth available to L-C at that crucial moment, East 71st Street’s heated sidewalk.

H-E, scooping up L-C, holding L-C tight to her boobs, which act both as insulators and heat generators, but unfortunately not at this time, as food supply, comforts H-E. L-C generates a dying light, a healing hot, a go slow cherish a merriment, but L-C is not in such a dire condition as cannot be resurrected.