A human army marches to the battle where the office is a glass climax. Handicapped pigeons police the city – white-bread-inbred, they peck at vomit and flap onto a railing as I approach. Their bellies are full but their souls are rotten. I reach my destination and revolving doors catch me like a throat, drawing me in and checking my badge. The lift strips my freedom. It takes four minutes to become a machine that thinks in numbers and answers the phone. A small part of me watches the seagulls hanging in the updraft of the tower block – and that part is crying.
Search the fragments