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Rhythms for Survival

On the other side of a translucent glass membrane, a membrane breaking up the opacity and channeling the outside world, our autotrophic forefathers, their mathematical symmetries reified as branches, beckon. Or they most likely hadn’t beckoned, however, there is little one can do in defying the urge to put one’s hind limbs to the task of walking us out to convene with them- and so it happened that in the time it takes for a single Clostridium perfringens bacterial cell to divide, the space on the other side of the membrane had been filled by something extra- me.

This set of events led to another set of events, as sets of events are wont to do and there, on a muddy patch with little tufts of green hair sticking out, upright like they had just suffered from hypothermia or perhaps felt some emotional response from the music of the rains, 2 orange webbed feet and 2 orange bills stood in sharp contrast against the brown patch and green tufts.

Several blurs of other colours-blues, purples, blacks, greys, walked hastily to their destinations, some with a stern expression on their faces, lines for mouths and some chattering away animatedly with their situational companions. It was quiet despite the flurry of activity. The seagulls were framed outside of any other goings-on in the background. I’ve always found them fascinating, not as the epitome of thievery (it’s all about perspective and I can see why some people might be annoyed) but as b