Coucou. (Pigeons have a bible too. In Exodus, god’s unsteady head threw breaded, corn-feed chicken upon the land.) And this god said MERDE PUTAIN what’s my chance quoi?
I missed their god by a kilometre, judging by the progress the pigeons’d made upon the bounty. BASILISQUE DE LA SACRÉ-MCDO. En face de la Moulin Rouge, who was, might I add, rather underwhelming.
(We started to feel underwhelmed with the world the moment images were added to music. This is why dancing is important.)
Look at their eyes: the pigeons are all like, “C’est quoi ça?” Crack and petrol. A brush of crumbs on a blue-jeaned thigh. R.E.M. and a florescent-powered street light.
Clumsy god: I’d almost forgotten that bike path. Where am I? Still Paris? Even she’s getting splattered with the latest oil spill. “Thank you god,” the pigeons said. “These birds are delicious and should see us through another storm.”
It is that kind of picture: not a world I want to leave yet beautiful just the same as I remember the skinned-knee gravel of beginning, a shiny new McDonald’s in Provo, UT, and the little plastic tumbling men that we’d collect and stack and stack and stack as high as we could get them.
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