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Look out any window. walk through any park. Goose step down any city street. They're everywhere. Robins at rest on any piece of land that might have something good to give them.

They're born with a compass in each eye. Navigational tools that read the earth's magnetic field. Age robs them of their portside copilot, muting its muscle until the eye is just an eye. The right one lingers, guiding them home when every landmark they know is gone, just as long as they've got a little light to work with.


You keep waiting for these migratory songbirds to scatter when you get too close. They have no fear of you. One bird turns to meet your gaze with the eye that's made of magic, and the magnetized needle in that dark globe tells you what you want to know. You're both here for the same reason. And you both need some small flame to light your way.

You cover your stronger left eye with one hand cupped to cradle the cartilage that shelters every thought in your head. You watch the world blur and feel them calling you.


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