There’s a man in Missouri. He’s standing on top of the Dove’s Treasure. He doesn’t know that. He couldn’t know that. It’s just an odd disc of metal. It’s sitting out by the road. To the doves, it is their souls; it is their destiny; it is everything that is good and beautiful in the world. For two hours, the man has been standing there. He’s been hogging the Dove’s Treasure. They all know, even though only a tiny minority of the world’s doves live in Missouri. They can feel him. There’s an ominous and brooding song in their souls. They want to strike back.
“You don’t want to stand there,” says a little girl. “It’s sacred.”
The man smiles. He looks patronizing. He shuffles a little to the left. “Is that enough?”
“You’re lucky,” she says.
There’s a woman in Arkansas. She’s having the galaxy tattooed onto her arm. The tattoo artist is asleep, but he’s still going. He’s put on most of the galaxy, and it’s beautiful, and perfect, and real, but there’s a shadow on the stars. He’s starting to tattoo in the thing that casts that shadow.
The phone rings. He startles. He blinks. He’s impressed by what he’s done so far, but he can’t imagine where he was going.
There’s a girl in Kentucky. She gets up and goes to the window. She looks at her reflection. For a moment, she sees her wings.
Sometimes, things happen. Little things. Stupid things, maybe.
It’s worth remembering.