A tired and weary hunter in search of near extinct prey continues his trek through a wasteland of urban terrain devalued by its own inability to live outside the bounds of polite society. I am sick of the wild goose chase, the petty lies, and a derisive mating game so predictable you can follow its pattern as easy as a toddler playing Candyland. I no longer seek acceptance or approval, but merely to sate the hungers of the dark soul lurking underneath the all too familiar surface; a face painted on no different than any other Fourth Street whore’s. My hopes, dreams, wants, and needs have been an exercise in mental masturbation long enough to have become as false as Survivor or a fifty million dollar business deal from a scam artist in a foreign country. I am told by the insipid in heaping plates of platitudes of the falsehoods meant to console the solitary soul. Does a woman exist who can create more excitement in me than a three color newspaper or am I merely doomed to wander aimlessly like an insubstantial specter seeking revenge?