Finally, a place for the likes of me.

I'm allergic to the spring to summer atmosphere of Montana. Why the plants decided to dislike me after I came home from Mesa, AZ is beyond me. Perhaps they felt betrayed, and since then, have waged an unrelenting war against my head.

If only they knew of my undying loyalty to my state. No more lengthy and curious wandering into the unknown crevices of this great continent. I've set my blurry itchy sights higher, and have focused them on Europe...in ten years or so... Perhaps, they know my inclinations. They should also know I always come back.

And so the questions and answers go. The constant sense of disappointment gnawing at my ulcer eaten stomach. If it not be the plants, it be the animals, or The People. If the world knew of my atrocities against civil obedience, and societal expectation, I'd been long abandoned alongside the road to allow buzzards a meal for a few days. My final use alluring the rats of the sky into scavenging the corpse of a torrential life.

Tell me, Brother Buzzard, do I taste of honey and sage? And I’d humbly allow them the feast.

I work so tediously hard at maintaining my madness into the confines of my small messy apartment. The culture and town I live and work within must never know of my ability to derail myself, and figure out my weakest moments. Because then they’ll feed. Then they’ll wait, and circle high enough to where the clearest eye can’t see them for fear of the blinding sun. And then they’ll descend, casting ragged shadows along my weakened body, and wait for the last breath to leave.

And I would have succumbed to the worst sort.

But perhaps this is only me being paranoid, manic, and falling again.