Sometimes I contemplate the multiplicity of life times and spaces that I
have dwelled in. The one in which that pigeon and I fell in love seems
only yesterday.

But these moments swirl and morph in my mind falling and rising from
below to up above. A dream, a premonition, a memory; all the same. From
this life, from another; all the same.

Now that pigeon on my arm has disintergrated, it has been absorbed, and
in its place a new moment forms; that of the home of our feral friends.
In another lifetime, another me, another you, another them, depending on
your oreientation, sits amongst our friends in the pigeon palace as an
adolescent.

A robed man woud visit this palace most times my companion and I  were
there with the purpose of intergrating particularly potent herbs into our
system in peace, before going back to college to study technology and
religion. This figure would approach the roundabouts centre with a sack,
and, just in front of the bench we smoked at, dispensed of its contents.
Reorientating himself he slowly diluted into the distant highstreet and
our freinds rapidly formed a dense rectangle beneath our feet, absorbed
by the nutrients beneath theirs. Behind us lied an arabic sign saying:
DO NOT FEED THE PIGEONS.

At irregular intervals some threshold met with our freinds, 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 air they kicked up, washed over me. It was deep and
unnoticed in that lifetime, but now, now it is pulled up from the void
beneath in all its intensity.

Our feral freinds are affecting the flows beneath society. I don't know
how, just that they are doing so intensly, among the sewers of our
strange collapsing city.