No one noticed the day he lingered near the window pane, the women scurrying about on the street hiding from glances forcing the men to try harder at capturing a portrait in their minds. He had written what wouldn’t bat an eye: it was due to the birds pied appearance to why it is now extinct. Extinction through difference. Play the part, isn’t that what they always say?

In a world in which originality lies in rain forests and blackened underwater tunnels, how can the notion of anything other than replicas send anything into oblivion. We’re all patchwork quilts of experiences and feelings we’ve had and continue to live with. He had written it was the colorful patchwork of feathers that lined the wings to which he could never hide. We, in our skin pressed with endless valleys and countless creases represent our own lives: scars and scabs, things that fade and permanence relayed in stories recollected of who we how and how we came to be here. Through these tiny wrinkles from the way we hold our pen or how we hunch when watching the latest episode of our favorite television show, it’s all relevant. It’s all perfect. Our skin, up close, is an absolute distinction of only us. Each of us is different.

And yet, with the camera lens backed up even a few feet, our differences become unnoticeable. Those tiny imperfections and wounds from memories ingrained in our being, well, they’re completely insignificant.  Living in order to prove that existence is about differences when originality doesn’t exist. We’re all the same in the end merely trying to share our own stories, experiences, and feelings.

That’s the beauty of the pied entity: living to share before we become extinct.