A wounded duck is all I am.

Am I really so weak? I can barely keep my chin up in this mess. I have no home but I've felt that before. Then again, in Austin I had the refuge of my parent's house to bring me back to life, but here? Here I am just a floater, eternally spinning around and around in a no good toilet on N. 3rd St. I need to find a place to plant some seeds, build a fence, smoke a bowl, and hang my hat. I look out my window and all I see is paradise in every direction but when I focus my eyes and look right in front of my face I see a haggard, anal-retentive, bossy, Italian landlord with a billy bite on her hand and the devil in her eyes. I need to escape into this eden in my backyard, but I'm no woodsman and Willy already has the sweet and tangy taste of javelina on his lips and there's no stopping him from digging his own grave. Tomorrow, Tim and I are retreating into the mountains to recover from the stresses of moving/transitioning/mixing/marinading. If I'm not back by Saturday, just try and forget me.