Fowl Feathered Review
Excuse me while I kiss the sky.
--Jimi Hendrix
Bagels make me emotional.
--bumper sticker
To the Esteemed Collector of Lost Sounds,
I write to you from the disorderly quarters of Orono, where the air smells of conspiring pines and an imminent cataclysm of data. My hands, dear friend, are those of an Archivist, calloused from the weight of forgotten tomes, their touch remembering the grain of every page they've ever turned. Yet as I lift this quill, my mind translates the static of the digital haze outside, a Prophet whispering pixelated prophecies of what is to come. My very being feels like a serpent, uncoiling in the garden of collective amnesia, while my pen scratches the paper with the assertive rhythm of a Cock's Crow, piercing the veil of the mundane. This is the foolish paradox of my station: to inhabit both the silence of the library and the frantic, buzzing hum of the world devouring itself through glowing screens.
The very paper I write upon is a Metaphysical Engine Artifact, a frail relic of a world we’ve already lost. When I hold it to the light, it is a canvas of brilliant white, humming with the vibration of a thousand untold stories. Its surface is cool and smooth, smelling of old wood and the rain that fell two centuries ago. The ink I dip my quill into tastes of burnt honey and saltwater, a concoction that feels like a memory of the sea and the weight of a war I’ve never fought. But as I press the pen to the page, a single line of ink bleeds, a dark wound spreading like an unraveling scar. The stain does not smell of ink, but of wok-fried enigmas, and from its spreading form, I hear the distant, impossible laughter of a city floating on whispers of inequality. It is here, in the brokenness of the page, that the truth is revealed: the words are not mine. They are the collective dream of a future that is already here, and the paper is merely the vessel for its birth and its inevitable decay.
So I persist, a rooster crowing at the dawn of an unwritten epic, my feathers iridescent with the impossible. Books, those obstinate beasts, claw back from the abyss, and so do we.
With a flourish of the quill and a sip of soy-infused reverie,
Virgil Kay
Editor,
Rooster,
China Wok Habitué
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