1/100 /1000 species of birds: a heterogeneous “society”.
“Vagabonds”, loyal consorts, noisy talkers, night flying champions, scratching around… Foreheads, cheeks, backs, torsos, necks, throats, jaws with beaks.
Nesting, breeding, crossbreeding negating the species, shrieking their own lost rarity… a desperate sense of no longer being models… because they are unrecognizable… like overweight cats, slow, drawn pitch black, organic fragments, imprisoned, embittered sentries… a strangled Munchian scream.
Something human and something else, left entirely to the imagination, is showy, is secret.
The role of guardians who do not have the desire, the sense to communicate. A kind of union of what we were, here and elsewhere, and of what to know. Perhaps “psychic companions” if not an involuntary return; birds as felines with poisoned beaks, with no desire to be part of this rampant “sociopathy”.
These sentries do not ask for kindness or gratitude but exhausted they sense their own pain in their solitude and isolation. They are not virtuous or new stars, even though the media, in the face of something “monstrous”, might be interested.
Dry, hard and isolated by the nobility cancelled out by the many conflicts with the outside, an obscure immobility weighed down by guardianship.
What other place did they populate? A blind vastness, a looming distance?
It is gloomy an unsuccessful, planning their defeat; but can we truly cancel out existence?
Heads of birds, demanding a full and hypnotizing silence. I offer sentries to myself and to any author who still wishes to make himself a guard-guardian against the mediocrity of the everyday.