story unfolded.

There's a lady, 
walking the streets around my office.
A little odd, she carries a Mickey Mouse backpack and she sometimes talks to herself.
In the midst of all the crazy professionalism of the EU quarter, she waltzes to her own tune.
I pass her by, in the little square right next to the large intersection
The city is drowning in a new kind of sunlight and everybody is soaking it up.
She is walking slowly on a small patch of green bordering the cobbled street. 
Too busy throwing handfuls of breadcrumbs around to notice that there are no birds anywhere to be seen.
The square is empty, but for a few tourists taking snapshots of King Leopold on his horse.
None of this matters to the lady, busying herself feeding the fictitious birds.
What is she doing? For what, for whom?
Perhaps it does not matter.
If she provides the bread, surely they must come?
And if they don't, she knows she did her part.
Now, this could be a story of a bird-lady, about casting pearls before swines, 
or any other story you might find yourself needing right now.
But it's probably not about birds and breadcrumbs.


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