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There's this bird, right? And he's been knocking
out mirrors. He's the blight of
our city, this guy. This
guy! Red haired and
bonkers, waltzing with conviction to the
passenger side,
pecking your mirror to shards. Me?
I'm the guy you've seen with a hole in my
skull, where birds perch between missions
and roost. You know when I've passed you, a beak
and cocked eye staring you down. But you'll never remember my
face.
You'll note the absence of the woodpecker lilt.
He's given up music for strategy, to ultimately eliminate the enemy team in the shop glass.
My body's a chamber of clockworks ticking and
certain times need something pulled. That guy's found a way to push these levers, sent
me to smash hammers down on the fancy shops of newbury
street and islington. I've
always believed the birds to
be beautiful, red ones vitally so. And you do what exquisite birds
require, or you risk the fate of
ordinary. I've been loyal to the birds, lost a
lot of friends, but I tell myself: these birds are gorgeous and they know what
they are doing.
I haven't seen myself in ages. I can't even
tell if I have eyes. So I will ask you, when the birds are out to find food or
fight: Do you think my hair is too long? That my beard is trimmed? Do I have
toothpaste on my chin, wax in my ears? Have I been a good friend, to you?
My eyes, are they there? Can you show me who I
am?
The birds come back and I stop asking questions. In
thier travels they'll have found another spot with which to see themselves, and
order it destroyed. So it is, a true history of the first school of acting
designed by birds for the robots of false beauty.
-e.
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