Unique has no one.

All she has is a diary, a pen and an idea.

Unique has no one.

All she has is that foul ball of feathers.

That rotten shadow of evil.

Unique is pathetic.

I mean, who do you know hangs around with birds?

Unique is useless; all she does is post a poem a day on WordPress.

But who reads her shit?

Unique is a stupid bitch.

Beyond the rants of hidden figures, a lone crow waits in silence, all you hear is his tiny heartbeat. His sapphire blue eyes twinkle outside the bedroom window of one. With his beak, he cuts through the double window pane. The occupant throws a copy of Birthday Letters by Ted Hughes at Crow, they shake and explain, ‘it’s all for social media! I do it for likes! I love Unique, I do.’

Crow glides across to the occupant’s desk and states, ‘only the unbelieving would be so ridiculous to make such comments.’ The occupant apologises profusely, but Crow proceeds to prove his point.

‘Unique has me!’ Crow declares as he slowly carves around the iris of the lone occupant.

‘Unique has me!’ Crow whispers as he jabs deeply into the inner thighs of the occupant.

‘Unique has me!’ Crow sings while scratching the knees of the occupant.