The business of chicken
5 ante meridiem, the crowing of the cockerel wakes thee up, that electronic crowing that sounds every morning to take thee out of the wonderful world of dreams and bring thee back to this one, the world of labour, the world of feeling tired for hours, then having fun for a few more, and then falling exhausted into bed, until the digital cockerel crow again, and the cycle repeat itself.
Through thy mouth slips thy breakfast, so fast that thou canst not savour it, thou knowst that if thou dost not hurry thou shalt not arrive in time to the central market of the city, the other poultrymen will hoard the best produce and only the chickens at the bottom, the smashed ones, the ugly ones, the difficult to sell, will be left.
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