It was a shabby, thrown-together affair with the world’s most miserable seats set in line like a squadron of ancient metal warriors upon a cold playground, and where even the birds scowled dourly upon the proceedings.
He was fascinated, she bored beyond belief at that freekin’ Detroit Jazz Fest.
They were similar, but not identical; the same species, yet minutely but self-importantly different, and because they clung to and cherished their own territories, they would never see eye-to-eye; and they called the strip Gaza, with its occasionally shifting definition of boundaries and littered with the remnants of past conflicts – and it was clearly a no-fly zone.
Floyd didn’t mind the thick white line that separated their square in half but he hated it when Robert refused to even look at him.
The only way to cage the birds was throughg the use of electrified white tape.
To avoid squabbling over crumbs, the birds agreed to divide the piazza into two sections.
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