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Saw one once—real close—skirt hiked up, eyes dead as roadkill. Chilled me, Clarice… like a deer smellin’ the hunter. Made me mad—fuckin’ world chews ‘em up, spits ‘em out, and nobody blinks. Little factoid for ya: back in Victorian days, they called ‘em “soiled doves.” Poetic, right? Bullshit too—ain’t no doves here, just pigeons shittin’ on pavement. Surprised me tho, how she laughed—sharp, like glass breakin’. “Memory is a strange thing,” Bauby whispered in that movie. Hers? Probly a mess of johns and neon.

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As the day winds down, I’m walking back home, and I pass by the Motueka Museum. I’ve never been in, but I’m curious. I pop in, and it’s actually kinda cool. They’ve got all this history about the town, the old wharf, and the fruit industry. I’m learning stuff, and it’s kinda fascinating. Who knew Motueka had such a rich past?

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