A Commuter's Feathered Dream

<img src="img/03.morning1.jpg" alt="First morning" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> You awake, dear reader, sprawled in the tangled wreckage of your bedclothes, as if a particularly enthusiastic flock of starlings had staged an interpretive dance upon your slumbering form. A dream—oh, a dream!—clings to the edges of your consciousness like a half-forgotten limerick, all feathers, round eyes, and talons sharp enough to make a tax auditor wince. But no matter, no matter! Dreams are but the mind’s nightly attempt to file its paperwork, and yours has clearly been mislaid in the cosmic bureaucracy. The real world beckons, and it is a world that demands you rise, shine, and submit to the daily ritual of Making Yourself Presentable for Work. What this entails, of course, depends on the peculiar flavor of your existence. Are you a cog in the great grinding machine of corporate monotony, doomed to iron a shirt so crisp it could double as a legal document? Or perhaps you’re one of those free-spirited types, whose “work” involves convincing a laptop and a lukewarm latte that you’re a visionary artist? Either way, the clock is ticking—its hands moving with the smug precision of a headmaster who knows you’ve forgotten your homework. Eight o’clock, that tyrannical hour, looms like a deadline for a project you vaguely recall agreeing to in a moment of misplaced optimism. Now, let us pause to consider the absurdity of it all. This “work” you’re preparing for—what is it, really? A grand societal conspiracy to keep you from napping in a hammock or, perish the thought, thinking for too long? In the grand tapestry of human endeavor, your morning ablutions are but a single, slightly frayed thread. You splash water on your face, perhaps, or wrestle with a tie that seems to have developed a personal vendetta. You gulp coffee so scalding it could wake a coma patient, all to propel yourself into a world where someone, somewhere, has decided that this is how we keep the universe from collapsing. Or at least, how we pay for Wi-Fi. And yet, there’s a certain charm in the chaos, isn’t there? Like a hedgehog attempting to navigate a motorway, you stumble through your morning routine with a mix of determination and bewildered optimism. The mirror reflects a face that’s either ready to conquer the day or quietly pleading for a sick note. Your wardrobe, a monument to questionable life choices, offers you a shirt with a coffee stain that could pass for modern art, or trousers that whisper, “We’re one doughnut away from betrayal.” You choose, you dress, you arm yourself with keys, phone, and that nagging sense that you’ve forgotten something vital—your dignity, perhaps, or the name of your boss’s goldfish. Out you go, into a world that’s less a grand adventure and more a series of mildly infuriating fetch quests. The bus is late, naturally, because public transport operates on a schedule designed by a particularly vindictive deity. Your fellow commuters, bless them, are a gallery of glazed eyes and existential despair, each clutching their overpriced coffee like it’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic. And somewhere, in an office or a shop or a cubicle decorated with motivational posters that scream “You Are Not Enough,” your desk awaits. It’s piled with tasks that multiply like roaches in a takeaway kitchen, each one a tiny monument to the futility of trying to “get ahead” in a society that’s rigged the game so thoroughly it makes a casino look fair. But fear not! For in this grand, ridiculous pageant of modern life, you are the hero—or at least, the protagonist. You will navigate the email avalanches, the meetings that could’ve been memos, the colleague who microwaves fish curry in a shared kitchen. You will endure, because that’s what humans do: we endure, we complain, and then we endure some more, all while dreaming of feathers, round eyes, and talons that might, just might, carry us away from it all. So go forth, you magnificent, bedraggled creature, and make the world regret ever inventing alarm clocks. Work starts at eight, but your story? That’s just getting started. (link: "Continue")[(go-to: "car1w")]

<img src="img/04.kambocha.jpg" alt="First morning" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> The car’s radio sputters static as you navigate the morning commute, the city’s pulse throbbing through smog and half-hearted roadworks. Your mind drifts to Calleb’s printer, now stapling its way through reams of pointless meeting notes, and the faint crow-shaped shadow of Miriam’s flyer tucked in your glovebox. A sudden screech of tires snaps you back: a delivery truck has swerved, spilling crates of artisanal kombucha across the road, their glass bottles glinting like a shattered flock taking flight. Drivers honk, but you’re transfixed by a single bottle rolling toward your car, its label reading “Crow’s Brew: Fermented Freedom.” The coincidence prickles, a nod to Miriam’s corvids, and you half-expect to see her van careening through the chaos. The kombucha calamity unveils a sub-story: the truck belongs to a startup run by a tech bro named Zane, who’s peddling “mindfulness beverages” to “disrupt relaxation.” Zane, in a neon tracksuit, is yelling into a headset about “supply chain synergies” while a crowd gathers, some snapping photos, others pilfering bottles. A sparrow lands on your hood, its round eyes glinting with what you swear is amusement, as if it’s seen Zane’s type before—sleek, ambitious, and doomed to trip over their own hubris. You maneuver past the mess, the sparrow flitting away, leaving you with a nagging sense that this city, with its crows, kombucha, and cubicle wars, is weaving a tapestry far stranger than your overdue overtime or that feather you can’t stop touching. (link: "Continue")[(go-to: "cubeexist")]

<img src="img/05.caleb_printer.jpg" alt="First morning" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> As you arrive and walk into the office, a scene unfolds that could only be described as a still life painted by a particularly pessimistic bureaucrat. The air hums with the low-grade despair of fluorescent lights and the faint, acrid whiff of burnt coffee from a pot that’s been stewing since the Bronze Age. Cubicles stretch before you like the tombstones of ambition, each adorned with wilting Post-its and family photos that scream, “We miss you, but enjoy your overtime!” The centerpiece of this beige dystopia is a printer-copier machine, a hulking relic that squats in the corner like a sulky dragon, its “Out of Order” sign flapping with the petulance of a monarch deposed by its own incompetence. Somewhere, a radio plays a pop song so overplayed it feels like an interrogation tactic. At the heart of this tableau stands Calleb, a man whose face suggests he’s one paper jam away from renouncing civilization and joining a flock of particularly grumpy pigeons. He jabs at the printer’s buttons with the fervor of a man trying to defuse a bomb in a bad action movie, muttering curses that would make a sailor blush and a poet take notes. “Work, you wretched box of spite!” he hisses, as if the machine might be swayed by sheer indignation. It isn’t. The printer emits a wheeze that sounds suspiciously like a chuckle, while Calleb’s colleagues, safely ensconced in their cubicle fortresses, pretend not to notice, their typing a staccato symphony of cowardice. This is the modern office, dear reader: a place where dreams go to file expense reports, and where Calleb’s war with a broken printer is both the day’s greatest drama and its most futile rebellion. (link: "Continue")[(go-to: "wlunch1")]

<img src="img/06.office_luchroom.jpg" alt="First morning" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> You shuffle into the office lunchroom, a fluorescent-lit purgatory where dreams of culinary satisfaction go to be microwaved into oblivion. Calleb is already there, hunched over a Tupperware of sad pasta, muttering about the printer’s latest betrayal—now churning out stapled gibberish at random. The Person in Cubicle 12, a cryptic figure whose name remains as elusive as a promotion, sits opposite, methodically dissecting a sandwich with the precision of a war crimes tribunal. The conversation, if you can call it that, is a grating debate about whether the office should adopt “agile mindfulness” sessions, a concept so vacuous it could suck the air out of a boardroom. A pigeon peers through the window, its round eyes glinting with what you swear is pity, its talons tapping the sill like a metronome counting down to your inevitable overtime. The semi-working microwave, a relic that hums with the resentment of a thousand overcooked burritos, sparks and whines as someone attempts to reheat a curry, filling the room with a smell that’s part spice, part existential dread. Everyone groans—except the Person in Cubicle 12, who continues slicing their sandwich, unmoved, as if they’ve transcended such mortal annoyances. Calleb, undeterred, launches into a ten-minute monologue about font choices for his fifty-page meeting drafts, while the mindfulness debate spirals into absurdity, with someone suggesting “desk yoga” to “align our chakras with KPIs.” You clutch your lukewarm coffee, the pigeon’s stare a fleeting anchor to something wilder, its feather-like shadow on the glass hinting at a world beyond this beige cage where microwaves fail and “agile” is just a word for “hurry up and despair.” (link: "Continue")[(go-to: "car1h")]

<img src="img/07.flashmob_birds.jpg" alt="First morning" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> The car’s heater wheezes as you weave through the evening’s traffic, the day’s overtime—forty minutes to appease the company gods—leaving you as drained as Calleb’s printer before your Ox-staple miracle. The kombucha spill from the morning feels like a fever dream, but Zane’s “Crow’s Brew” label flashes in your mind, an odd echo of Miriam’s crusade. Suddenly, the road ahead erupts in chaos: a flash mob has taken over an intersection, dancers in bird costumes—crows, pigeons, even a ludicrous flamingo—gyrating to a bassline that rattles your windows. If a motorcycle was a peacock on your bus ride, this mob is a parliament of owls gone rogue, their movements sharp and synchronized, talons painted on their boots glinting under streetlights. The dancers’ leader, a figure in a crow mask, leaps onto a mailbox, scattering flyers that flutter like molted feathers. One lands on your windshield, proclaiming a “Revolt Against Routine,” urging citizens to “fly free from cubicle cages.” It’s absurd, yet it resonates with your own battles—stains, keys, printers, protests. A pigeon struts across the road, unfazed by the dancers, its eyes catching the neon glow in a way that feels too knowing, too much like the birds haunting your periphery. As police sirens wail and the mob scatters, you ease forward, the flyer’s words burning in your mind. The pigeon takes flight, a shadow against the dusk, and you drive home, wondering if this city’s madness—its birds, its brews, its rebels—is stitching together a story where you’re not just a commuter, but a player in something wilder, sharper, and far less predictable than a stapled meeting agenda. (link: "Continue")[(go-to: "soc1")]

<img src="img/08.xbox-night.jpg" alt="First morning" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> You hunker down in your living room, an Xbox controller in hand, for a night of digital carnage that society deems “unproductive” yet feels more honest than most boardroom meetings. Your quest: lead your ragtag team to victory in a five-match streak of Galactic Gorefest VII, a game where aliens explode in ways that defy both physics and good taste. The room is a shrine to procrastination—empty crisp packets, a pizza box that’s achieved sentience, and Calleb, invited out of pity, narrating his every move like he’s drafting a fifty-page strategy memo. Outside, a sparrow taps the window, its round eyes gleaming as if it’s sizing up your kill-death ratio. (link: "Continue")[(go-to: "alone1")]

<img src="img/09.fishing.jpg" alt="First morning" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> You perch on the crumbling edge of Lake Murk, a body of water so opaque it could double as a metaphor for corporate transparency. Fishing, that noble pastime, is less about catching fish and more about pretending you’re above the rat race while sitting on a soggy log. Your quest: snag five fish before the mosquitoes declare you their buffet. The rod trembles in your hands, a relic from an uncle who swore it was “lucky,” though its luck seems to have expired around the same time as dial-up internet. As the sun bleeds into the horizon, a heron stalks the shallows, its round eyes glinting like a debt collector’s. You feel watched, as if the bird knows your fridge is empty and your soul is on layaway. The first fish—a carp with the charisma of a tax form—takes the bait, and you haul it in, one down, four to go. Society, you muse, is much like this lake: murky, overfished, and full of things that bite when you least expect. A second fish follows, then a third, but the heron’s stare grows heavier, its talons clicking on a rock like a countdown. By the fourth fish, you’re half-convinced the bird is judging your technique, and when a fifth finally flops onto the bank, the heron lets out a cry—sharp, triumphant, as if it’s the one who’s won. A feather drifts onto your tackle box, soft and grey, stirring a flicker of something wild, like a memory of wings you can’t quite place. You pack up, the fish yours but the victory oddly shared, the city’s neon glow on the horizon reminding you that even leisure is just a brief escape from the cubicle gods’ eternal ledger. (link: "Continue")[(go-to: "sleep1")]

<img src="img/10.morning2.jpg" alt="Second morning" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> As you awaken, it is not with the jarring clang of a nightmare's abrupt eviction notice, but with the serene satisfaction of a migratory bird finally plopping onto a particularly cushy branch after a transcontinental jaunt. Your limbs stretch with the languid grace of a bureaucracy processing a single form on a quiet Tuesday, and your mind hums with the quiet triumph of having navigated the cosmic turbulence of sleep without once colliding with an anxiety-fueled meteor. The morning light, filtering through your window like a polite but slightly overeager intern, bathes the room in a glow that suggests the universe has, for once, decided to cut you a break. You dress with the unhurried confidence of someone who has finally mastered the art of morning existence, your shirt miraculously stain-free, your tie cooperating like a diplomat at a successful peace summit. It's only when you reach for your car keys—those faithful metal companions that transform you from pedestrian peasant to automotive aristocrat—that the universe reveals its cosmic sense of humor. They are nowhere. Not on the hook by the door, not in yesterday's trouser pockets, not hiding beneath the couch cushions like shy metallic creatures. A dawning horror creeps over you, slow and methodical as a tax audit: they're in the laundry bin, nestled among yesterday's coffee-stained casualties like archaeological artifacts of your own incompetence. The clock, that tyrannical timekeeper, reminds you with smug precision that public transport awaits—a chariot of communal misery that operates on schedules designed by vindictive deities. Somewhere, a kettle whistles with the enthusiasm of a minor deity who's just discovered the joys of instant coffee, but your contentment has been hijacked by the simple, devastating reality that even perfect mornings can be derailed by the cosmic conspiracy of misplaced keys. Yet, as you grab your jacket and resign yourself to the bus, the world outside your window reminds you of its tireless dedication to absurdity... (link: "Continue")[(go-to: "bus1w")]

<img src="img/11.bus2work.jpg" alt="Bus to Work" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> You stumble onto the bus, a vessel of communal misery that smells vaguely of damp socks and existential regret, your shirt still faintly haunted by yesterday’s coffee stain—a modern art masterpiece that also claimed your tie and trousers. As you collapse into a seat, the vinyl squeaking like a judgmental aunt, a dreadful realization swoops down like a hawk spotting a particularly hapless vole: your car keys. They’re almost certainly still nestled in the pocket of those ruined trousers, now languishing in the laundry bin alongside your dignity and a sock that’s been missing since last Tuesday. You picture them, glinting mockingly in the dark of the hamper, and wonder if the universe is staging a sitcom at your expense. The bus lurches forward, its engine grumbling like a dragon with indigestion, and you resign yourself to the day’s mounting absurdities. Outside, the city crawls past in a blur of grey concrete and greyer faces, but the bus judders to a halt with the suddenness of a pigeon startled mid-strut. A protest has clogged the street—hundreds of people, waving signs and chanting about the latest societal outrage: the council’s plan to replace every park bench with “smart” seating that charges you to sit down. “No pay, no perch!” roars a woman with a megaphone, her voice sharp as a crow’s caw. You peer through the window, and there, amid the chaos, a flock of sparrows erupts from a tree, their wings a frantic semaphore against the urban din. They swirl, darting over the crowd, as if mocking the grounded humans below with their effortless freedom. A feather drifts through a cracked bus window, landing on your knee—a soft, grey echo of that dream you half-remember, all feathers, round eyes, and talons. The bus driver sighs, muttering about delays, while you clutch the feather and wonder if those keys, that stain, this protest, and these birds are all part of some cosmic conspiracy to remind you: you’re not in control, and the world is as wild as a hawk’s cry. The bus won’t move for another twenty minutes, but your mind is already taking flight, chasing the shadow of something sharper, older, and far less forgiving than a missed key or a stalled commute. (link: "Continue")[(go-to: "offlate")]

<img src="img/12.office_late_arrive.jpg" alt="Bus to Work" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> You stagger into the office, twenty minutes late, the bus’s peacock-biker fiasco still screeching in your memory like a flock of irate starlings. The air hums with the usual fluorescent despair, cubicles looming like the gravestones of spontaneity, but Calleb’s at the printer-copier again, his face a map of weary surrender. “It’s not even making noise now,” he laments, gesturing at the machine as if it’s a sulky deity. “No error lights, no whirs, just… nothing.” Calleb, bless him, is infamous for churning out fifty-page drafts for five-minute meetings, each page a monument to his belief that verbosity equals value. Before you can commiserate, the boss swoops in, all clipboard and forced cheer, to decree that your tardiness demands atonement: not punishment, oh no, but a sacred duty to the company gods. “We all need our eight hours,” she intones. “Miss twenty minutes, you owe forty extra—minimum—to keep the cosmic ledger balanced.” You nod, wondering if the gods also demand Calleb’s novellas or just your soul. (link: "Continue")[(go-to: "offmicro")]

<img src="img/13.office_micro.jpg" alt="Bus to Work" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> The lunchroom greets you like a grudge-bearing relative, its air thick with the ghosts of yesterday’s fish soup and the microwave’s latest tantrum—now it only heats food if you press “defrost” and whisper sweet nothings. Calleb, ever the optimist, is wrestling with a salad that looks like it was harvested from a landfill, while the Person in Cubicle 12 methodically peels an orange, their silence louder than the room’s chatter. Today’s annoying discourse revolves around the office’s new “sustainability initiative,” which translates to banning plastic cutlery while ignoring the company’s fleet of gas-guzzling delivery vans. A sparrow flits to the windowsill, its round eyes catching the light like twin moons, its talons a faint reminder of something sharp and untamed that prickles your memory. The microwave emits a petulant beep, scorching someone’s lasagna into a carbonized relic while leaving the center colder than corporate empathy. Groans ripple through the room, but the Person in Cubicle 12 remains serene, their orange peel curling like a mystic’s scroll. Calleb, predictably, derails the sustainability talk with a rant about the printer’s “ethical obligation” to stop jamming, as if it’s a sentient activist. You nibble a sandwich and as the lunchroom smeels and bickers over compost bins and “green branding,” you pocket the sandwidch and deside to try the streetvendor. (link: "Continue")[(go-to: "vendmenu")]

<img src="img/14.vendor-menu.jpg" alt="First morning" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> The fast-food cart outside the office, dubbed “Gus’s Grease Emporium,” is a rickety shrine to culinary desperation, parked under a streetlamp where pigeons gather like critics at a bad play. Gus, a grizzled vendor with a beard that could hide a small ecosystem, slings meals with the weary charisma of a man who’s seen too many lunch rushes. You approach, stomach growling, the memory of the lunchroom’s microwave betrayal still fresh. A crow perches on the cart’s awning, its round eyes glinting as if it’s judging your dietary choices, its talons clicking a rhythm that stirs a faint, wild echo in your mind—something about feathers and untamed skies. Gus hands you a grease-stained menu, and you scan the five offerings, each a satirical jab at the city’s obsession with “convenience” over quality. * The Cubicle Cruncher: A burger so overstuffed with wilted lettuce and mystery sauce it requires a performance review to eat. It’s marketed as “fuel for synergy,” but the soggy bun suggests it’s been crying since Tuesday. * The Overtime Wrap: A tortilla packed with dry chicken and regret, sprinkled with kale to trick you into thinking it’s healthy. It’s the meal equivalent of your boss’s “we’re all in this together” speech. * The Printer’s Revenge: A burrito that leaks beans like the office copier leaks toner, spicy enough to make you question your life choices. Gus swears it “fights bureaucracy with flavor.” * The Crow’s Delight: A falafel pita with a suspiciously earthy tang, garnished with herbs that might’ve been foraged by Miriam herself. The crow above caws approvingly, as if it’s on the payroll. * The Commuter’s Curse: A hot dog slathered in mustard and existential dread, served with fries so limp they mirror your post-bus-ride spirit. It’s cheap, quick, and utterly defeated. You order the Crow’s Delight, the crow’s stare following you as Gus tosses in a free soda “for surviving the corporate jungle.” A feather drifts from the awning, landing in your palm, and you pocket it, the city’s chaos—protests, kombucha spills, Calleb’s drafts—fading into a hum of something older, wilder, as if Gus’s cart is a waystation on a quest you’re only beginning to understand. (link: "Continue")[(go-to: "overtime")]

<img src="img/15.office_closet.jpg" alt="overtime" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> As a side quest in this beige purgatory, you’re banished to sort the utilities closet, a chaotic realm of tangled cables and expired Post-its that smells like regret and toner dust. Amid the ordinary staples shelf, you unearth a pristine box labeled “Machine Stapler Ox”—a typo so glorious it deserves its own folklore. Curiosity piqued, you check the printer’s user maintenance guide (a tome Calleb clearly never touched) and discover the machine’s brand matches the Ox. With the reverence of an archaeologist uncovering a lost relic, you load the printer’s stapler compartment with the Ox staples. A whir, a click, and—miracle of miracles—the beast roars to life, spitting out paper like a dragon with a grudge. By the time you prepare to leave, it’s on the thirty-second stapled copy of last month’s obligatory forty-five-minute “employee well-being” meeting, a document so laden with buzzwords it could double as a sedative. You slip out, the printer’s triumphant chugging a faint echo of wings, those familiar round-eyed birds from the bus lingering in your mind, as if they, too, approve of your accidental heroism in this absurd, stapled saga. (link: "Continue")[(go-to: "bus1h")]

<img src="img/16.busride_home.jpg" alt="overtime" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> The bus home is a rattling ark of weary souls, its interior a symphony of creaks, coughs, and the tinny bleed of someone’s earphones playing a song that sounds like a seagull arguing with a synthesizer. You slump into a seat, the day’s office indignities—Cal’s printer vendetta, a meeting about “synergy” that felt like a cult initiation—clinging to you like damp feathers. Your stained shirt itches, a reminder of yesterday’s laundry bin fiasco, and you pat your pocket to confirm the car keys are still AWOL, probably plotting their escape with a rogue sock. Outside, the city is bruised with twilight, streetlights flickering like the last gasps of a dying star. You notice a pigeon perched on a lamppost, its round eyes glinting with a familiarity that prickles your spine, as if it knows something you don’t—something sharp, something winged. Then, chaos erupts with the subtlety of a vulture crashing a picnic. The bus screeches to a halt, tires squealing like a startled kestrel, as a swarm of motorcyclists roars into view, blocking the road. They’re not your average bikers—no, these are performance artists, their bikes painted in garish hues of neon pink and acid green, revving in sync to form a cacophonous “ode to urban decay.” If a motorcycle could be a bird, these would be peacocks with a grudge, strutting and shrieking for attention. Their leader, a figure in a helmet shaped like a disco ball, leaps onto a makeshift stage (a flattened traffic cone, naturally) and declares this a protest against “the tyranny of predictable commutes.” Passengers groan, but you can’t look away from a lone crow perched on a nearby dumpster, tilting its head as if judging the spectacle. Its gaze feels like a nod to something older, wilder—a memory of talons and sky you can’t quite grasp. The bus driver, muttering about early retirement, opens a thermos of soup, and you settle in, the crow’s stare and the bikers’ chaos weaving a strange, feathered thread through the tapestry of your utterly deranged day. (link: "Continue")[(go-to: "soc2")]

<img src="img/17.urban forage.jpg" alt="overtime" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> You join an urban foraging walk, a hipster-approved hobby that promises “reconnection with nature” but mostly involves dodging dog mess to pluck dandelions from a sidewalk crack. Your quest: gather five edible plants before the group’s leader, a bearded zealot named Rowan, lectures you into a coma about “rewilding your microbiome.” The city’s edges are your hunting ground, a tangle of weeds and concrete where “nature” fights a losing battle against billboards and vape shops. A magpie struts nearby, its round eyes glinting like a pawnbroker’s, its talons clicking with a rhythm that feels too deliberate, stirring a faint echo of something fierce and untethered in your mind. Rowan’s spiel is a masterclass in sanctimonious drivel, preaching sustainability while wearing trainers made in a sweatshop. You snag nettles, chickweed, and three others, each plant a small rebellion against the supermarket’s plastic empire. Society, you reflect, loves to commodify “authenticity” while paving over anything truly wild. The magpie follows, hopping from bin to lamppost, its gaze a challenge to keep going, to see beyond the city’s veneer. When you pocket your fifth plant, a feather falls from nowhere, landing among the leaves. Rowan drones on, but you’re distracted, the magpie’s stare and the feather’s weight hinting at a quest grander than salads—a summons to a wilder world where crows, herons, and nightjars are more than birds, and you’re more than a commuter with a stained shirt and a stapler fix. (link: "Continue")[(go-to: "alone2")]

<img src="img/18.stargazing.jpg" alt="overtime" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> You sprawl on a blanket in your backyard, a suburban postage stamp optimistically called a “garden,” for a night of stargazing, a pastime that pretends to connect you to the cosmos but mostly reminds you of your overdue electricity bill. Your quest: spot five constellations before the neighbor’s security light turns your sky into a discount disco. The stars are shy, bullied by the city’s glow, and your telescope—a thrift-store find—wobbles like it’s auditioning for a comedy sketch. A nightjar swoops low, its eyes catching the moonlight with a round, knowing glint, its talons a fleeting shadow that stirs a restless hum in your chest, as if the night itself is watching. Stargazing is society’s cruel joke: we’re sold the universe but given light pollution and neck cramps. You trace Orion, then Cassiopeia, each a small victory over the urban sprawl’s tyranny. The neighbor’s dog barks, a reminder of the mundane tethering you to earth, but the nightjar returns, perching on a fencepost, its gaze urging you onward. By the fifth constellation—Ursa Major, barely visible—you’re less focused on stars and more on the bird’s silent vigil, its presence a thread weaving through your fishing trips, bus rides, and printer triumphs. A feather falls, soft as a secret, and you tuck it away, the stars dim but the night alive with a quest that feels less about constellations and more about answering a call from something wild, soaring, and just out of reach. (link: "Continue")[(go-to: "sleep2")]

<img src="img/19.morning3.jpg" alt="overtime" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> You wake on the third morning with all the enthusiasm of a tax auditor discovering creativity, your limbs performing the same tired choreography of existence: swing legs out, feet on floor, stumble toward the bathroom like a zombie with a mortgage. The routine unfolds with the precision of a Swiss watch designed by someone who's given up on time itself—shower (hot water lasts exactly three minutes before the boiler has its daily nervous breakdown), breakfast (toast that tastes like cardboard's less ambitious cousin), and the grand finale of Making Yourself Presentable, a phrase that suggests you were ever truly hideous to begin with. You reach for the green tie, that faithful companion in your war against sartorial mediocrity, and proceed to brush your teeth with the mechanical efficiency of a factory worker who's forgotten what factories make. The toothbrush, however, has developed delusions of grandeur, flicking foam with the enthusiasm of a small, minty volcano. A glob of paste arcs through the air like a tiny, white comet and lands squarely on your tie with the precision of a cosmic punchline. You stare at the damage—a perfect, foamy badge of morning incompetence—and sigh with the weary acceptance of a man who's been personally victimized by dental hygiene. "Oh well," you mutter, reaching for the yellow tie, "it's the yellow tie today." The yellow tie, hanging there like a sulky banana, seems to mock your predicament, but you don it anyway, because this is what we do: we adapt, we endure, and we pretend that switching ties is somehow a victory over the universe's relentless campaign to make us late for things we don't want to do anyway. At least we got the car keys today.. (link: "Continue")[(go-to: "car2w")]

<img src="img/20.carride.jpg" alt="overtime" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> You ease your car onto the road, the engine’s hum a faint counterpoint to the city’s morning cacophony, your laundry-bin-liberated keys jangling triumphantly in your pocket. The stain on your shirt is fainter now, but its ghost lingers, a badge of your ongoing skirmish with chaos. Traffic crawls, as if every driver has collectively decided to rehearse for the World Procrastination Championships, and you find yourself idling beside a battered van plastered with stickers proclaiming “Save the Urban Corvid!” A woman leans out its window, her wild grey curls escaping a scarf patterned with ravens. She’s waving a flyer, her eyes round and bright as a hawk’s, and when one drifts through your open window, it’s edged with a single black feather that brushes your hand, stirring a vague unease—like a shadow of something sharp and ancient flickering at the edge of your mind. This is Miriam, self-proclaimed “Crow Mother,” who bellows over the honking to explain her one-woman crusade to protect the city’s crows from “gentrification’s shiny claws.” Her van, she declares, is a mobile sanctuary for injured birds, and she’s blocking traffic to rescue a fledgling corvid stranded on a median. You glimpse the bird, its talons scrabbling at the asphalt, and feel an odd pang, as if its struggle mirrors your own daily grind. Miriam’s fervor is infectious, her flyer crammed with crow facts and conspiracy theories about skyscrapers disrupting avian ley lines. As traffic lurches forward, she tosses you a wink and a caw-like laugh, leaving you clutching the feather-edged flyer, its weight heavier than it should be, whispering of wilder things than offices woes or overtime edicts. (link: "Continue")[(go-to: "work1")]

<img src="img/21.office3.jpg" alt="overtime" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> You slump into your cubicle, a beige rectangle that's less a workspace and more a monument to humanity's gift for making everything smaller, duller, and somehow more expensive. The yellow tie hangs around your neck like a cheerful noose, and you stare at your computer screen, which stares back with the blank indifference of a therapist who's stopped taking notes. Around you, the office hums with its usual symphony of despair—keyboards clicking like the footsteps of tiny, bureaucratic ghosts, phones ringing with the persistence of existential questions no one wants to answer. But today, something feels different. Off. Like a song played in the wrong key, or a joke told by someone who doesn't understand why it's funny. You glance around, and everywhere—everywhere—there are birds. Not just the usual pigeon outside the window (though it's there too, judging you with its round, unblinking eyes), but birds in the motivational posters (when did "Hang in There" cat get replaced by a soaring eagle?), birds in the screen savers (why is Janet's desktop wallpaper a flock of crows?), and birds in the casual conversations drifting over the cubicle walls. Someone's discussing their weekend "bird-watching adventure," another person's humming what sounds suspiciously like a mating call. Why are we here? you wonder, staring at a stack of Calleb's post-stapled printouts, each page a testament to the printer's miraculous resurrection and Calleb's unwavering faith in the power of excessive documentation. What is the meaning of these perfectly aligned sheets, these meetings about meetings, these reports that report on other reports? And what, in the name of all that's holy and caffeinated, is Calleb going to do now that the printer actually works? The man's entire identity was built on mechanical failure and righteous indignation. Without the printer's rebellion, he's just a guy with an inexplicable fondness for forty-page memos about five-minute topics. The office feels like a stage set for a play you don't remember auditioning for, where everyone knows their lines except you. The birds—real and metaphorical—seem to be watching, waiting, as if they know something you don't, something sharp and wild and infinitely more interesting than quarterly projections. You lean back in your chair, the yellow tie catching the fluorescent light like a small, defiant sun, and wonder if this creeping sense of unreality is what happens when you've been a cog in the machine for too long, or if the machine itself is finally breaking down. (link: "Continue")[(go-to: "fftie")]

<img src="img/22.streetvendor.jpg" alt="overtime" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> The fast-food vendor,Gus , a man whose apron bears the battle scars of a thousand ketchup skirmishes, hands you your nutrition bag—a paper sack so greasy it could audition for a role as a minor ecological disaster. As your fingers brush the bag, his eyes lock onto your yellow tie, a garment you’d chosen in a moment of sartorial whimsy, and he freezes, as if struck by a vision from a particularly flamboyant oracle. “That tie,” he declares, voice trembling with the fervor of a poet who’s just discovered rhyming couplets, “it’s the exact shade of the peacock, the most magnificent bird to ever strut the cosmic catwalk!” The queue behind you shuffles impatiently, their collective sighs forming a low hum like a distant, disgruntled hive, but the vendor is undeterred, launching into a monologue with the zeal of a prophet who’s traded incense for onion rings. His hands gesticulate wildly, knocking a stray fry into low orbit, as he extols the peacock’s virtues, oblivious to the growing suspicion that you’ve stumbled into a low-budget remake of a nature documentary. “First,” he proclaims, jabbing a finger skyward, “the peacock’s tail is a masterpiece of evolutionary showboating, a kaleidoscope of iridescent blues, greens, and flashes of golden yellow that screams, ‘Look at me, I’m the avian equivalent of a fireworks display!’ It’s not just feathers; it’s a cosmic billboard advertising nature’s flair for the dramatic.” He leans closer, eyes gleaming like a man who’s seen the secrets of the universe in a drive-thru menu. “Second, its confidence—strutting about like it owns the jungle, unbothered by the opinions of lesser creatures like pigeons or, say, tax auditors. And third, its sheer impracticality! That tail’s a glorious middle finger to survival-of-the-fittest nonsense, proving beauty can thumb its nose at pragmatism and still thrive.” The vendor pauses, breathless, as if expecting applause, while you clutch your nutrition bag, wondering if the universe, in its infinite jest, has conspired to make your lunch break a seminar on ornithological aesthetics. You nod, tip generously, and retreat, your green tie now an unwitting ambassador for the peacock’s cause, flapping defiantly in the breeze of a world too busy to notice its own absurdity. (link: "Continue")[(go-to: "car2h")]

<img src="img/23.streetpreformer_train.jpg" alt="overtime" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> The drive home is a sluggish pilgrimage through a city that seems to resent your existence, streetlights casting long, talon-like shadows across the dashboard. Your encounter with Miriam lingers, her crow obsession scratching at something primal in your thoughts. Traffic stalls at a railway crossing, where a freight train rumbles past, its cars graffitied with vibrant murals of birds—crows, hawks, owls, their eyes impossibly round and vivid. A single feather, caught in a gust, spins past your windshield, and you feel a jolt, as if the train’s cargo is less steel and more something wild, untamed, watching. The driver behind you honks, oblivious to the fleeting sense that you’re being followed by more than just rush-hour impatience. At the crossing’s edge, a street performer juggles flaming torches, their arcs mimicking the swoop of wings. He’s new, a wiry figure with a grin sharp as a beak, and his hat brims with feathers that shimmer in the firelight. The crowd tosses coins, but his gaze locks on you, and for a moment, you’re certain he knows about the flyer in your glovebox, about Miriam’s fledgling, about the unease coiling in your gut. As the train passes and traffic stirs, he tips his hat, a single feather falling free to dance in your rearview mirror. You drive on, the performer’s stare lingering like a riddle, the city’s pulse thrumming with the faint, familiar cadence of something soaring just out of sight. (link: "Continue")[(go-to: "soc3")]

<img src="img/24.pokernight.jpg" alt="overtime" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> The Rusty Anchor, a pub so steeped in regret it could bottle its own brand of melancholy, hosts your poker night, where you and a motley crew of misfits chase the thrill of outwitting each other over lukewarm beer. Your quest: win an all-in hand, preferably without losing your rent money or your dignity. The table is a battlefield of stained felt and egos, with Miriam, the Crow Mother, dealing cards like a shaman dispensing prophecies. Her scarf, still raven-patterned, seems to writhe in the dim light, and a rook perched on the pub’s windowsill watches with eyes so round they could audit your soul. Its presence feels familiar, a prickling hint of something sharp-edged and untamed. The game is a mirror of society’s hustle: bluff, hoard, and pray the odds don’t laugh in your face. Miriam’s bets are erratic, fueled by crow trivia and gin, while Calleb overanalyzes every hand like it’s a corporate merger. You bide your time, chips dwindling, until a perfect hand—aces, kings—lands in your lap. You go all-in, heart pounding, and Miriam folds with a cackle, but Calleb calls, his confidence as misplaced as his printer faith. The river card flips, and you win, the pot yours amid groans and spilled lager. The rook caws, a feather drifting onto the table, and you pocket it, sensing the bird’s approval is less about poker and more about defying the rigged game of life itself. As you leave, Miriam’s wink suggests she knows more than she’s letting on, and the night feels less like leisure and more like a step toward something winged and perilous. (link: "Continue")[(go-to: "alone3")]

<img src="img/25.urban_hiking.jpg" alt="overtime" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> You lace up your boots for an evening hike through the Scraggle, a patch of urban woodland optimistically labeled a “nature reserve” despite its proximity to a discount tire warehouse. Your quest: reach the hilltop lookout before the stars are drowned by the city’s light pollution, a feat requiring you to dodge discarded energy drink cans and the occasional feral shopping cart. The path is less a trail and more a suggestion, winding past trees that look like they’ve been audited one too many times. A crow perches on a branch, its eyes round and unblinking, as if it’s tallying your sins or, worse, your carbon footprint. The climb is a microcosm of modern life: steep, littered with obstacles, and faintly ridiculous. You pass a jogger in neon spandex, their smartwatch barking motivational platitudes like a drill sergeant with a marketing degree. Society’s obsession with “wellness” feels as hollow as the plastic water bottle you kick aside. At the lookout, the city sprawls below, a glittering testament to humanity’s knack for turning forests into spreadsheets. The crow follows, landing nearby, its talons scraping the rock with a sound that hums of something older than your overtime woes. A feather falls at your feet, and as you pocket it, the stars flicker, faint but defiant, whispering that this hike, this quest, is less about the view and more about remembering you’re not just a cog in the machine—but a spark in something wilder. (link: "Continue")[(go-to: "sleep3")]

<img src="img/26.endscene.jpg" alt="overtime" style="width:100%;max-width:400px;display:block;margin:0 auto;"> You wake on day 4, or is it day 400? Time, that slippery, bureaucratic nitwit, has been doodling in the margins of your calendar again, and you’re fairly certain it’s been forging your signature on existential dread forms. You stretch your wings, feathers rustling like a librarian shushing a particularly rowdy cloud, and realize that ghastly bipedal, unfeathered nightmare—where you were inexplicably waddling on two legs, queuing for something called a "latte"—was just a dream. Thank the Great Sky for that. With a yawn that could startle a cumulonimbus, you hear the call of the south, a sultry whisper in your skull, like a travel agent who’s had one too many mango daiquiris. You leap into the air, wings snatching the wind like a pickpocket grabbing a wallet, and soar upward, leaving behind the north’s dreary obsession with "schedules" and "mortgages." Below, the world’s a patchwork of human nonsense—sprawling cities that look like circuit boards designed by a committee of drunk squirrels, and fields striped with the kind of precision only a species with too much time and not enough predators could manage. As you glide, your mind flits to the gendered individuals of your species waiting in the south, their plumage probably preened to perfection, ready for fleeting, glorious company—brief romances that’ll be the talk of the flock until someone spots a particularly shiny fish. You can almost hear their chatter, a symphony of gossip and flirtation, punctuated by the occasional squawk of someone who’s flown into a palm tree after one too many fermented berries. But a pang of sadness tugs at your heart, like a poorly timed downdraft, as you glance back at your favorite window ledge in the north. Oh, that ledge! A perfect slab of weathered stone, warmed by just the right amount of sun, where you’d perch and watch humans scuttle below, arguing over who invented the wheel or why their "smartphones" keep demanding updates. You bid it a silent goodbye, knowing it’ll be claimed by some upstart pigeon with no respect for tradition, and wing your way south, where the air smells of freedom and the faint, tantalizing promise of chaos. (link: "Continue")[(stop:)(go-to: "Credits")]

<audio autoplay> <source src="ACFD.mp3" type="audio/mpeg"> </audio> (text-style:"double-underline")[(align:"==><===")[Credits]] Goes to me Zjoasan/Jocke: Story and style of writeing AI's: Grok: For spell and grammar correction, and some filler text in the same "style" Claude: Creating image prompts of all the scenes Bing: Creating the Images of Claudes prompts ChatGPT: Helping with Twine2 Suno: For the theme song and lyrics Softwares used: Chrome for AI chat Edge for testing Twine builds Twine: for makeing it posible to whip this together. Thoughts: This is the first draft for friends and family, it's not that I've created an extra ordinary game. Bu tI'd like to get feedback on the style of writing. Suggested side quest inthis world? Alternative endings. Objects to interact with. I plan to make some sort of real game instead of grapgical novel, but this is an alpha, if even that. Theme song lyrics: [Verse] Grey suits march like rows of crows Pecking at keyboards in a lifeless flow Coffee cups stacked high as sparrow nests Each sip feels hollow Another test [Chorus] Give me wings Let me soar above Trade this desk for skies and doves No more cubicles No more screens I want a commuter's feathered dream [Verse 2] Paper piles like feathers shed Emails circling inside my head The clock ticks slow The room feels tight A sparrow trapped without the flight [Prechorus] Is it freedom Is it flight Is it dawn Or endless night [Chorus] Give me wings Let me soar above Trade this desk for skies and doves No more cubicles No more screens I want a commuter's feathered dream [Bridge] Doves coo softly A distant sound While crows mock the ties that keep me bound I envy sparrows Their reckless glide No office walls to cage their pride (live: 319s)[(go-to: "End")]

<audio autoplay> <source src="ACFD.mp3" type="audio/mpeg"> </audio> (text-rotate-x:359)+(text-rotate-y:359)[="THE END"} (link: "restart")[(go-to: "Intro")]