In the dark, neglected gutter running the length of a nearby secluded side street lies a small, lifeless bird. This is the blackcap – the unaccustomed northern nightingale – a creature with a charcoal greyness to its slender feathers. He fell from his cold, city perch in the thinning branches of a tree that was planted long ago amidst the concrete only a short time ago, but no one noticed, because in death, or that which resembles death – all creatures are not equal.