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."