in the morning i met a bird, standing by the curb, blinking in the flat gray light.
- hey bird, where’s your tree?
- i don’t like trees, he said.
- you don’t say.
- you people think trees are beautiful, but up close they’re ugly. the bark is itchy and they creak in the wind. it gives me nightmares. they’re crawling with mites and bugs—and squirrels, the mangy fuckfaces.
- don’t birds eat bugs, i said.
he blinked twice and sighed.
- i like pizza.
- just the crusts.
i’m out of questions, but he’s not finished.
- and trees man. their roots. they push down, through the soil. they’re branches at both ends, like. like synaptic dendrites of hunger. they grow up and down at the same time. just the thought of it creeps me out.
he raked his beak through his feathers once and yawned.
- man, i’m never going back to that tree.
pic by tony millionaire. words by bruno
"I’m living like there’s no tomorrow, because there isn’t one."
why don’t any of my hostages get Stockholm Syndrome?