This is not about birds. And you are not my friend. And you have no hands. That’s what it’s about. Hands. And all the rest; feet, ribs, skin, hearts, spleens, soul. All of it. Well not the soul. You decided long ago that souls were the same as morality. A fantasy. That’s it; you told me once that morality was as much a fantasy as the soul. You proved it by sleeping with your sister. Tripping up blind men. Laughing at the disabled. Killing kittens. Never birds. I told you, this isn’t about birds. Just hands. And all the rest. Your hands. I should ask you for forgiveness. Don’t tell me I don’t need forgiveness just listen. It was winter, a real bastard snowy one, and I invited you for drinks. You said you had more to tell me about morality but I already knew what you’d done. I saw the reports. Massacre at Orphanage. Your picture was all over the news. You came early. You tapped your boots against the doorstep to shake off snow. In the kitchen I told Morality to wait for my signal. I said you should at least have one drink. Morality laughed at me. Morality said, “Fuck drink.” Morality burst through the kitchen door into the hall when you hadn’t even had time to take your coat off. Morality tore you apart. You put your hands up to defend yourself but he had them off with one swipe. Claws ripped through your flesh. Your feet went next. Then the rest; ribs, skin, heart, spleen. All of it. When there was nothing left of you and the snow you’d brought in on your coat was red, Morality stood over you waiting for your soul to show up. But it never did.