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I had this dream the other night where I was feeding birds in the park. There were all kinds of them: pigeons, chickadees, ducks, I think I even saw a barn swallow or two. It was a pleasant dream. Then, all of a sudden, as if spooked by something, the birds all flew away. Except for one. It was a peculiar looking little bird, unlike any I'd ever seen. Its feathers shone like metal. And it just stood there staring at me on my park bench, ignoring the stale bits of bread at its feet. I leaned in slowly so as not to frighten it. I extended my hand, a few sunflower seeds resting in my palm. I made little kissy noises, hoping to earn the bird's trust. Eventually it took a cautious step towards me. Then another. A few moments later, just as it came within a couple of inches of my outstretched hand, I realized I'd been taken in. For this was no bird at all, but a pair of razor-sharp scissors merely pretending to be a bird. Shit. In that split second I simply felt like a fool. I had let my guard down. And then it was on me. A flurry of hair and gleaming steel surrounded my thrashing body like a cloud. I knew that fighting would only make things worse, but simply laying down was not an option; I had worked too long and too hard on cultivating my magnificent, flaxen beard to let this little bastard just take it all away from me. And so I fought a doomed battle. When it was over, the scissors flew away with my award-winning beard, undoubtedly planning to weave it meticulously into its little bastard nest. I lay on the grass, breathing heavily, a few awkward tufts of hair still clinging to my face. And I wept.
When I woke I could still hear the awful sound of the blades: Snip... snip... tsk... tsk... shik... sims. Wait, Sims? What the hell could he have to do with this!? And so I quickly sent him a rambling, accusatory email, to which he has still failed to respond. Is his silence proof of implicit guilt? I think so. I haven't left the house since that night. I just sit quietly playing Jenga and brushing my beard, and also doing hundreds of drawings of the scissor-bird so I won't forget. Sometimes I'll email them to Sims. He never responds, but I know he knows I'm on to the game. He made a shirt from one of them, though. I think i's his way of saying "I'm sorry." If only he could say it to me in person. But that's just who he is, bless his little bastard heart.

Sort of a dull red (mauve maybe?) on black