This is a placeholder for the better bird to fly from the windowsill of grey concrete or tottering wood rotting: it can choose. 

Droppings betray choices made preceding an autonomous flight splintering the edges where claws hang on for that nanosecond: it can count unconsciously, and then that one decisive time, it could not. 

There below lies its carcass or so could it envision its probability and multiplicity in realities diverging and converging, in linearities of written lines. Birds do not write lines, they occupy them: bending, glissando read as scores of birds. 

If the city were permafrost 30000 tears and years could thaw its persistent echo of a life once flown into promises of resurrection or competition with a baby mammoth elsewhere: tusks are not city birds, are not baby-wear, are not commonly sitting at the window sill on the 29th floor of a dilapidating apartment block. Ivory has no wings and is frowned upon. 

A life, as a building, a bird as a memory of the World as a traveler: a teething placeholder for a better one? There below lies a puzzle of bones, surrounded by whitening rays of sun, crisp old leaves and birthing mushrooms: no better but real and re-cycling life on an electric bicycle.

ring! ding! clang! grind! The bird flies.

—animasuri’22