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Saw one once—real close—skirt hiked up, eyes dead as roadkill. Chilled me, Clarice… like a deer smellin’ the hunter. Made me mad—fuckin’ world chews ‘em up, spits ‘em out, and nobody blinks. Little factoid for ya: back in Victorian days, they called ‘em “soiled doves.” Poetic, right? Bullshit too—ain’t no doves here, just pigeons shittin’ on pavement. Surprised me tho, how she laughed—sharp, like glass breakin’. “Memory is a strange thing,” Bauby whispered in that movie. Hers? Probly a mess of johns and neon.

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Grabbed my coffee from that little café on the corner of Haharina Street. You know the one? The barista there is a legend. Always has some wild story about the locals. Today, he was ranting about the pigeons. Apparently, they’ve formed a gang. Like, what? Pigeon mafia? I couldn’t stop laughing.