The crows.
They sit outside my window and torment me. On purpose. They know I'm trying to write. They know they're irritating. They know all the other birds are cuter and nicer and sing better songs.
And still, there they are. Cawing up the skies with incessant chatter.
Dark feathered vermin.
"You can't write. Ha ha. Caaaw. You'll never finish that book. Haaaa ha caaw caaaaaw."
I think the Son of Sam was listening to crows before that dog came along.
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