Sunday, January 16, 2011

Thousand: Two Hundred Fifty-Seven

It’s okay whatever happens. Samuel doesn’t know why he feels so secure, so looked after. Hasn’t he just learned that for years he was alone, frozen in some purgatory of pigeons, unseen, it seemed, by anyone who might have decided it was dangerous to have a statue hovering above the city? Maybe he had been spotted, after all, had become a tourist attraction even, everyone fascinated by the trick but assuming a billionaire had the resources to place a man firmly in ether. Maybe there were souvenir postcards taken in various lights. This was the first thing that amused him

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