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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