Sep 8, 2015
I feed birds all the crumbs that I can spare in the mornings. They come to me. Jittering, flittering, shifting their little bodies and heads about as if there’s an apocalypse coming. As if someone has stolen in the night the parts that make us calm. I don’t know when I started feeding them. I guess it would’ve been a morning I realized I was a restless person in this world. When I saw my place at the dinner table. Where my hair was supposed to stop growing.