I am a nightingale. I’m fairly certain. I enjoy singing, and when I sing, it’s generally dark out.
I lived in the city for the first year, but it was so noisy. I had to sing twice as loud, for anyone to hear. This was hard on the syrinx.
It’s an improvement, the country. The air is better. Thicker. More trees. Nice, thick bushes. I live in a bush behind Børglum Abbey. It’s pretty nice, as far as bushes go.
Monks are a peculiar species. Their song is melancholy. Brother Geestvaas walked over a cliff. Brother Godslee stopped eating. He shrunk down to the size of a child. The brothers carried him outside, and threw him in the sea. But … it didn’t revive him.
They aren’t like the city men, always moving, too busy to wonder whether they’re happy or not. They are still and sad. Like hurt birds.
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