the empty spaces left behind. The food missing from the bins and the rain that never touched the ground that nourish our bodies, the dandelions missing between the pavement slabs that nourish our souls. A hole in a fence, an empty vessel. The unnoticed space in our lungs that fills up with air.

I awoke, overwhelmed 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 drawn to follow a flock of pigeons gliding in the distance, passing through collapsing structures. I arrive at their spot of refuge; the center of a multi-lane roundabout with a soggy pile of bread that reaches the height of a child at its center. I breathed in... ...and out...

The pigeons didn't scare at my arrival, for they know I am one with them: overlooked, ignored by those blinding themselves from the collapse, and hated by those engineering its acceleration. Knowing I am as they are, not a mere fancier, the pigeons make no attempt to stop me as I take a fair share of bread from the center, slipping it into the inner pocket of the jacket I am wearing, before contemplating the shapes and shades contained within this silent multi-lane roundabout.

Since then it's mostly been the same. Sat on benches, sat on chairs, sat this way, sat that way, squat against walls, on the floor, substances consumed, perceptions altered, thresholds met with, thresholds crossed, awake, dreaming, dreamless, remembering, not remembering and the odd thought that trails off into... ... as a rock dove flutters past. There's a story about a person pursuing a whale further and further into the ocean. Stories about following threads, following them where? The answers are never satisfying for longer than a moment, because outside of that moment they can no longer exist. So yet again my companion and I sit this way or that way, smoking and perceiving, never pursuing.