Dreams of pluckin’ chickens. Getting a chicken good and warm under a hair dryer, loosing its feather-bones from its feather-holes. Singing little songs to a chicken. Slapping a chicken on the butt for bok-bokking too sassily. Those little mental escapes we make from the city.
I don’t reblog sexpigeon often enough, but that’s because it’s like sharing dessert with everyone in the world, and I like dessert.
(that’s not even true, about dessert, I don’t really like it most of the time, but I can’t find the right words to say how much I love sexpigeon)