The seagulls cry outside our window, and they sound like nothing so much as the voices of children yelling and wailing. When they wake me in the morning, dragged up through the cobwebs of dreams to kick out of sleep in my too-warm sleeping bag, I always think there’s something going on.
Brain cycles through possibilities: apocalypse? car accident? paedophile? before I clutch my senses together and realise the voices are screaming in an alien, avian tongue.
Their troubles aren’t people troubles, so I roll over and go back to sleep.
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