I awaken the next day, overwhelemed by semiotics, with a pounding
feeling trying to escape from my skull, covered in the leaves of lime,
sycamore and oak trees. Rising amongst the leaves I am intuitively drawn to 
follow a flock of pigeons gliding in the distance, passing through
collapsing structures as I follow them. I arrive at their spot of refuge; the 
center of a multilane roundabout with a soggy pile of bread that reaches the 
height of a child at its center. A strange sense of freedom washes over me.