For some of us, a walk through town changes us, either for the better or worse. A child’s toy, crafted with the Fates looking on, preserved under a few small stones in the gravel street, blesses--more often insults--us with strange words, words consigning us appellations of high-status or degeneracy. It maybe an accidental misplacing, though more likely it is the result of a wary father, fearing his child’s life, tossing the object far from the window of the car, desiring the extermination of the thing; a snack for the birds, perhaps, he thinks. But paper is not a normal requirement for bird-life, and so it remained.
Loading: 0%