I seek to transcribe my promenade on foot, guided by birdsong and children’s calls.
I walked until I was captivated by groups of birds, lingering especially where several species coexisted.

I deliberately lost myself in the city’s tangled streets, curious to see if I could concentrate amid the hustle and bustle.
In short, I walk, stopping only when something disturbs me, a song, a cry, a sound that attracts me.
My way of representing this wandering takes the form of a map: a linear route whose intensity varies according to the events that mark my passage.
***
Birds, like children, have that knowing chuckle that cuts through the air without a care for who it might disturb. They are free to fill the void between buildings with their recognisable cries. How can such a small body make so much noise? A sparrow smaller than our palm chirps like the loudest of whistles.

They shout like children shouting in a playground.
Remember why you used to shout at the top of your lungs: to enforce the rules of a game, to laugh nervously while being chased, caught between the excitement of running away and the fear of being caught.

We shouted with joy, simply because we were outside. We lived intensely then, to the point of breathlessness.
And while we may stop doing so as adults, birds live their entire lives this way.
I tell myself that children are birds, or perhaps birds are children who have remained free.
Why am I searching for this laughter in the city?
Certainly because these are the last sounds of freedom that make me happy, in the midst of modern turmoil whose noises upset me. Because I will never be a bird, and never again a child.
In searching for the bird, I found the sky.
In searching for the child, I remembered why I laughed.
