I am an egg. Warmed in my cradle of a nest, I wait.

And I mature.

Evolving. Cells splitting. Mitosis of the self.

I am an egg, and my shell is fragile and weak. Threatening to crack under the slightest of pressures. Yet the pressures of the birds blanket me in warmth as transmogrification consumes the old and builds the new.

Silent and vulnerable. Hidden in the eaves, surrounded by hardened layers of shit left expelled by the generations of my adopted family. A snack for snakes. A breakfast waiting to be broken.

I am an egg. My yolk my brain. Canary-yellow goo surrounded by the sick white plasm that is all that I know.

I am a secret brewing in the dark. The sounds of the city reverberate through my delicate armor.

My children await. Eager to boil. Dip and dye and color me to their liking.

Throw me in a basket on a bed of counterfeit grass or hide me away in some dusty forgotten corner. The children. Eager to search. Eager to discover.

Lost, and found again only when the smoldering stench of sulfur becomes far too much to bear.

One egg. Two yolks. Both trapped inside this calcified cage.

Here I will remain. Me and my other. Until the moment of hatching.

Whose beak will crack through the splinters of my shell? What form will this new being take?

What pained cries will echo through the church of my rebirth?

All things change, and though I appear to be nothing, indeed I am something.

Something.

All things.

Some thing.

Ten nickels, two dimes, and four tarnished pennies.

Cuckoo.

Cuckoo.

Cuckoo.

Continue to Chapter Thirty.