A high squawk followed closely by a, "Whatcha doin'?", is the greeting from Bernie. His proud feathers cocked high above his head as whistled, asking not to be put to sleep, blankets being draped over his cage with a chuckle.
"Nightnight, Bernie." The boy smiled, he replied with another cooing whistle and "Whatcha doin'?".
"The truth is, Bernie, I don't know. You constantly ask me that, surely not because it's one of the only sentences you know, but because you really want to know what I'm doing... With what? My life? My dreams? My aspirations? To tell you the truth, Bernie, I feel a little lost. Don't be disappointed, I haven't quit, I'm finding my way. It just takes me a bit longer than others, I can be slow like that.
Aaaand I'm talking to Bernie again..." Confucius laughed tiredly and stood, crossing to the coffee machine that had overflowed during the brewing process.
Cleaning the mess and pouring a mugful of cold, black coffee, he headed off to bed sipping the thick liquid, not attempting to avoid the grounds mixed in. Thoughts of capture and oblivion fill his mind as Confucius drifted off.