Stop and write about “the current that flows through” if you wish. Or you could [[a mind to meander|go back to where the river begins]]. ---- I have been neglecting the fake pigeons (for reasons) and today the real pigeons appeared (on Water Street) to remind me that I need them, whether real or fake or neither or both. Someone rode his bike right through their klatsch and they swooped towards me, missing my face by inches, moving me thru them effortlessly as molecules of air, then burst across the street and alighted on nearby buildings, combining, recombining, drawing crazy elegance in the air, and that’s exactly what my memories do, how our thoughts work. I miss them so bad, as always when in self-imposed exile. I need them — why? What good is this need, for anyone or anything else? What is the value of hunger? “Hunger keeps the individual alive” answers the overconfident smug easy-mode voice in the chat. OK, but —  Continued my ride — focusing on the alleys and canals — the hidden pockets in between the named parts of the city — as everything out in the open or on the trails seemed unreal or fake. Was it?? Is it?? Who are you? Can you tell me? When will we know for sure? Does it matter? (Yes. Maybe. Who are *you?* No. I don’t know. Maybe.)