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Monday, Feb. 14, 2005 - 12:10 a.m.

An orphaned feather floats through the city, carried by the gusts caused by skyscrapers, the rising heat from a satay grill, and the breaths of its inhabitants. The feather is small, white and fluffy, once belonging to the underside of a bird now far away. It is a counterpoint to, and thus also reprieve from the sharp angles and lines, the artificial permanance of buildings, road-markings, right-angled vehicle turnings and box-shaped buses. The feather twists and arcs, makes short jumps in the air, as if it were looking for the bird that it came from. When the city stills tonight, the feather's journey will come to an end, dying as it touches the ground. But before that, it might drift past someone's field of vision and cause her to turn her head, or descend slowly next to another person's cup of coffee, presenting itself as an unexpected gift that appeared, as it were, out of thin air.


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