Ahh, a crisp Thursday morning, and the tentacles are out. Tentacles everywhere, hailing from the corners of buildings, flying like high flags, crackling in the crystalline mist. Tentacles from under the sidewalk, jutting up through the tectonic rended chiclet-like squares, tickling the calves of satchel-toting randoms as they walk right into the warm embrace of their betentacled elevators. Small tentacles like flagellae, whispering on currents deep in the ductwork, in the still water of an abandoned tire lying afield, in your left shoe. Can you hear the thrum? Empty, they flap spasmodically, but when they are near enough to gain purchase, they tug at you, wanting you close, to hold you as long as they might, as tentacles will. The rest of this day I dedicate, then, to the tentacle.