Reimagining the iPigeon.institute home exhibition.

With the new guests of the establishment,

The pigeons I purchased from 6th at Wall Street, by Skid Row,

I'm thankfully befitted with a quieter outlook; there were some notions that being guilty of cruelty to animals was a knee-jerk obvialty. 

Apart from reestablishing precedence, I'll take what I'm left with and go with perspective. Obviously, the place ought to be wrought with purpose for the pigeons. The place lives for them; they're significantly king and queen of the feral pigeons, in place and in purpose. I could expand upon this stated belief, but I believe I had done so, in previous blogs. 

The significant gist of the matter is that during last month's unseemly revue about the neighborhood corner I occupy, in my section 8 apartment, in which there were unending, relentless, and what I would aught consider to simply be a racial maturity divide, in which I simply couldn't possibly reach them, and I detailed it on twitter.

Link (collection - breakdown of last month on Twitter).

Regardless of anything, it was many things inappropriate. On some level, I had, in effect and in essence, elevated my status-rated universal significance bearing by a lot, on account of my habititude and whereabouts, which landed me a spot suitable, thereupon, to carry out a bevy of historically Wikipedia articles significant fare: of such things as common historical intrigue that had eluded me, previously, in scholarly works, research; investment.

That being the case, I'm very interested in getting started on my French Roll parchment transcription of my blogs, here, on iPigeon.institute, so far: in case some sort of fated disaster might happen, and also to slow the brakes on projected development, to take a step back and to go over the content I'd already produced, which I felt was compelling, at the time I wrote it. 

I've got a vast mess of clothes and kitchen stuff to wrest with; although I feel that, after the long battle and siege of last month, that I've been graced, by God and by virtue, with a wherewithal and wellness that will see me suited quite well enough to clean and organize my place; a task bearer's status claim which I feel was vastly laid claim over, due to my simple entrant's place state-of -in-life: that of a welfare housing recipient. I felt it my place to assert my wellness and buck the trends that apparently were, of those eyes upon me of people who were aught to assist me, who laid more than eyes upon sight, being that I was their client, and that welfare was their job.

Pictured here is the general task I'm forthwith faced with.