Posted elsewhere.
I think its worthy of blogation here, so:
Early
morning, eastern end of President street, you look up, the buildings
have a fuzzy edge, they seethe, they coo, careful, you’re in pigeon
country.
Suddenly, on cue the walls erupt as thousands of bodies
hurl themselves down into President Street. Maybe someone opened a
window, rattled a seed bag, murdered their spouse...The mass flicks
south on Mooi Street, rising as it turns east into Market, big, small,
young, old, black, grey ...
Continue reading...
Erant doodler, fiddler-with-music, jack-of-several-trades expert at nothing...
"Never trust a man who doesn't work with his hands."