There is, it is said, a burly man who haunts the neighbourhood, wearing a bare back and brandishing a large pair of scissors. He's no whippersnapper, it seems, and there is considerable doubt as to the purpose of his tool, which appears to be an open invitation to play an old game, with the proviso that any attempt to rock his move or paper his losses be done at a safe distance.
The man is said to hang out at a nearby bus stop with a roof that resembles the segmented carapace of a giant isopod. But as luck would have it, his path has yet to cross mine and a fondness for short cuts through void decks may account for this happy series of near-misses. What catches the eye in the corridors and sheltered walkways, rather, are the bees, butterflies and beetles who fly around the sharp corners of the estate and break its stiff lines with raw colours and rounded contours. Joining them in this roar of wings are moths with waspish stripes and a weak, floating flight. For all their prowess in biochemistry, the arctiids display a careless disregard for those who have forgotten how to recognise signs of danger, planting themselves on perches that cut too close to neighbours with no love for nature and a loathing for all things that bug.
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