Dear Dodo

You want your chicken free range. You won't have any poultry that has been caged on your table – if you're having any meat that is – but you're fine with people being overworked (that includes yourself) in über-modern half-lit boxes, taking and giving abuse, barking, biting, stinging, venomous, enraged, their bodies piling up...

Pets are nice. They have rights and need to be protected from those you'd never date, 'cause people aren't so nice. Wet dog smell is nice. Partner snoring is not nice. Cat sitting on your book is nice. Father interrupting your reading's not nice. Cleaning the bird's cage is fine. Cleaning the hair your boyfriend leaves in the bathroom's gross. Men are not nice. Women are not nice. Cows deserve a better life. Birds, oh, birds are beautiful! Your mother castrated your two younger siblings, emotionally. You haven't spoken to your brother in years, but you speak to your bonsai tree. And to your homegrown tomatoes. And to your goldfish. You write about empathy. You read about kindness. You signed a petition campaigning for the abolition of Ortolan Bunting eating in France. You have a back garden now, with a greenhouse. You're proud of your marigold, and the humming bees. You've never been to France. You dream. Wings forever fly. Formidable freedom. The panopticon gaze. Proud or conceited? A modest plumage or a lavish coat? You dream?

I wish you'd wake up to come with me to the Abbey of Thelema, where they feast on the tiny little things, swallowing them whole, not even hiding their greed from God. Dear Dodo, forgive my grotesque utopia, but the only way to dispose of it, is to suck it out of me, to suck it dry, Dodo.