Titmouse worked desperately to flatten her tuft, as a smooth head was all the fashion. Regardless of how hard her wings and and feet smoothed down her stubborn head feathers, they refused to lie obediently -- they sprang back to their original shape as soon as she moved her wing.

"This will never work," she said, looking into the mirror. She covered her beak with her wings and began to cry softly.

When she looked back into the mirror, Dustbunny was standing behind her.

Dustbunny scooped up a large glob of feather goop from the dresser. Working slowly from behind, he built up Titmouse's head feathers into the tallest crest she had ever seen.

it was a day of hanging out and old buildings
of trench coats and damp red bricks
of friends being happier than circumstances would dictate
of spiral staircases
of exploring the colorful gaps in reality
and the frayed edges or preconception

of redefining spaces
matter
power
talent
and those cast aside as worthless.