rachel a.c.

these memories, which are my life--for we possess nothing certainly except the past--were always with me. like the pigeons of st. mark's, they were everywhere, under my feet, singly, in pairs, in little honey-voiced congregations, nodding, perching sometimes, if i stood still, on my shoulder or pecking a broken biscuit from between my lips; until, suddenly, the noon gun boomed and in a moment, with a flutter and sweep of wings, the pavement was bare and the whole sky above dark with a tumult of fowl. thus it was that morning. -brideshead revisited / evelyn waugh