The eyes of a hunter are never seen.

Not until they pounce, then pursue; the chase and the feeling of teeth in your neck or you see your underwear on the floor of a stranger's bedroom, then will the true hunter be known.

In the club, in the coffee bar, when you hide in the long tall grass, packs of meat huddling together for warmth, safetly, the warding of pick-up artists, anything demanded by the survival instincts to forage more cigarettes, cocktails or coitus.

Prey knows that it is prey, from short skirts to stuffed shorts, pastel tops, boob jobs, leather trenchcoats over the out of shape frame. Sunglasses at night, can I have a light, telephone numbers, glass tumblers, the nightly global ritual played between the sexes.

Nature, red in tooth and claw.

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