A woolly beast in the shadows of the night, perusing the delicacies of the trash can buffet they call the back alley. This thing, this wild thing, cannot find shoes that fit because its feet are so damn large. But it smooths to the sounds of the urban wasteland, as the jazz floats from the basement liquor bars and ricochets off the concrete mountains, these mighty structures like phallic gods that scream at the thing you are home now you are here now you belong now you have arrived go fuck yourself and it has come so far from the mystic mountains where there are the woods and the trees and leaves of green and beavers of brown. There is no brook to drink from here only the gutter where stinkwater flows to the sewers that sit like maws in asphalt. These are its caves now, reeking tunnels that lie beneath the metropolitan behemoth that towers over the creature that towers over humanity that towers over suprahumanity for this hairy beast with the massive feet is not human no it is above and between a man and a god and a wild and shaggy thing that feasts on the raw flesh of the city its rats and cats and hobos alike and when the red and blue lights of authority scream at it in the gloom and it answers back it howls a sound like a dying angel might at its realisation of its own demise. This is a sad situation. This is the Sasquatch. This is the Yeti. This is the Big Foot. This is the city.