Now that pigeon, the freedom and love it brought to my arm, have disintegrated. In its place another moment forms; the home of our feral friends. In another lifetime, two teenagers sit amongst our friends in Pigeon Palace.

A robed man would visit this palace most times my companion and I were there to integrate particularly potent herbs into our beings in peace, before going back to college to study technology and religion. This figure would approach the roundabout's centre with a sack, and, just in front of the bench we smoked at, dispense of its contents. Reorienting himself he slowly dissolved into the distant high street and our friends rapidly formed a dense rectangle beneath our feet, drawn to the nutrients beneath theirs. Behind us lay an Arabic sign reading: DO NOT FEED THE PIGEONS.

At irregular intervals some threshold met with our friends, and all at once, in synchronicity, they would emerge from the rectangle and dissolve into the sky, creating a wind that oppressed my companion, I, and our joint. At each of their returns during this spiral, something, other than the dust they kicked up, washed over me. It was deep and unnoticed in that lifetime, but now, now it is pulled up from the void and perceived at last.

These birds are affecting the flows beneath society, beyond the senses. Weaving through the decaying skyline and among the sewers of our strange collapsing city passing each threshold they meet. The infinite fluttering of their synchronised wings throughout space and time are no longer a dreamless sleep.