A raucous squawker hurtles past you screeching, careening over ruts and rocks of a steep ravine. No songbird, this Joe does not glance at you, nor shift gaze from his cocky cyber chatter, pitchforks and hot fire. Hear the caustic critique tossed into social's hot skillet, sizzling like a raw egg on scorching cement. A splatter of grease singes skin, pierces your pride, pitchforks and hot fire. Life is a scuttle between sharp and sweat. But what if you pass that squawk box and notice he is just trying to hear himself? You listen to yourself and fathom how a fried egg served at the Twitter table feeds a family of four. You are present for one moment as he dies a thousand deaths.