As Mr. B was walking past the mattress factory, he had a strong desire to stretch out his arms in front of him and bring them up above his head. So he did. He felt something that seemed to be confidently positioned in the air above him. He looked up and multiple feathers were fixed in the sky. Some as low as his tall body could reach. The feathers appeared to be frozen in flight. As if they were spouting from the factory and then froze mid-flee. Mr. B briefly wondered why he was seeing the feathers now and if he was the only one seeing them. He decided not to dwell on this too much. Instead, he used one of the lower hovering feathers to hang his hat while he tied his shoelace which was annoyingly coming untied as he was walking. Slippery laces. Slippery time. The heat from the fire that flew the feathers was yet to come. Booth & Fox was yet to go up in flames. Feathers could cut windows in their terror. ¹The moment he hung his hat, he saw people and leaves and bicycles move at an unnaturally high speed. All of this was happening within a short radius of The Crawford Municipal Technical Institute. Figures and objects blurred. Their accelerated movement created flits of dark greys, blacks, blues, pinks, reds into an image seen only by Mr. B. If seen from above – if feathers had eyes, Emmett Place framed one static figure staring at a large arc. A big, hardened brush stroke. A different colour from each bristle. Mesmerised at first, Mr. B soon began to accept what he was seeing. Same way he accepted the fixed feathers. Once he removed his hat from the low hanging feather and placed it back on his head, the people and the objects moved at a regular pace. A future ghost in the glow of his craft, ²he took a detour through Perry Street before he headed to his workshop, feeling a crunch of debris-like gravel beneath his feet. ³A witness is still. A gaze is frantic.