"It's the way you sing that gets to them the most though." they'd told me as I was walking back into the old hut of a house I called home. "There's just never been another like you, and try as they might, there just never will be again."
"Chickens, I'm up with the crack of dawn daily. I've fields to sow. I've got laundry to sort. You know, my windows all look black and there's something about that view, like your eyeballs had just popped out your head and left you blinded, that is so relaxing. I mean nothing even close to a day on the beach compares. We can call it inner peace. We can call it Nirvana. But it feels good, chickens. And it feels right. And I mean, the city and all its lights, what comparison can they make to the stars that shine down on your snores like sprinkles from the hand of God?"
"But pops, the city, the homeplaying field. Don't you see anything special in it anymore? Don't you see anything worth saving?"
"That city don't need me. I'm an old fart, wrecked from the years I spend lifting stones to construct the foundation. There will be other heroes. Or there won't be and it will fall. And if it falls, there are other cities. It don't need me. It don't want me. God has spoken and he said, pops, you're just a pain in my ass."
"It will never be complete without you. Regardless if it lives or dies. It won't be whole without you there."
I closed the door on that old hut, but no matter how hard I tried to reach stillness, nothing could quiet out the sounds of those damn chickens.