Frying pan mosh pit, oil bubbles searing like Vesuvius at midnight, perpetual frothing lava like a diseased rabies ridden dog. The infected air juggles sinisterly in the hot gargling rush of the unnatural searing. They push and shove; and I watch the survival of the fittest molecule, seeing them scream within themselves as the smoke rises impatiently. I breath it in, afraid of allowing it inside myself, but still getting drunk on the blistering oily smoke, watching my glasses cloud with vapor. Outside the pigeons frantically pick at bread crumbs, their eyes twitching and heads turning like an epileptic child. The flutter of their speckled wings craze over eachother, nibbling and quivering, elbowing one and other with their entire bodies. The pedestrians wait on the speeding cars to give them way, sometimes not waiting for the light to turn red, because the mosh pit inside their heads tells them otherwise. They trip over the pigeons that fight amongst eachother in their silly little mosh pit and rush home to watch oil bubbles erupt in the celebratory mosh pit of the frying pan. The Mosh pit inside my head gets drunk on the Mosh pit upon my stove as I watch my glasses cloud with immense vapor.