Meet Peep.
Born with golden head plumage
— a rare omen in the brood.
His egg shimmered with a golden tip, said to signal a lineage of signalers, seers, instigators, or at the very least: a dangerously exquisite omelette.
Others cracked their shells and clucked in circles.
Peep pointed to the sky and asked why.
Then to his father and asked about metrics.
— His mother burst out cackling.
That was his entrance.
Inside that feathery fuzzball?
An inner fire.
Not rage — resonance.
Not noise — nerve.
And absolutely no patience.
Peep doesn’t peck.
Peep prods. Pokes. Interrupts.
Questions too many things, too soon,
too loudly, too cleverly.
Peep is no prodigy.
Just clarity, wrapped in colour.
— And a touch of tactical mischief.
But sometimes, that’s what it takes
to hatch a whole new order.
Too soon? Maybe.
Too much? Definitely.
Too good not to read? Absolutely.
This isn’t the Gospel.
It’s his gospel.
A side scroll.
A slightly unhinged, yolk-stained early record of an 8-day-old chick’s inconvenient precision.
— and his father’s slow-burning descent into existential poultry chaos.
Cracked from a golden egg.
Scribbled under coop duress.
Sanctioned by neither Brand Law nor Strategic Orthodoxy™.
Read it at your own risk.
— But know this:
Once you open Peep’s scroll…
you can’t unread it.