Tracking

Good enough. When I consider the course. Obstacles are fine, they direct attention to where the foot falls and that keeps you awake. Hurdles, and the trailing leg. You learn. Most things are matters of training. There's a pair of ducks at the lake that someone released, domestic animals, reverted to the wild. They might survive, but they lack native instinct. They were raised in someone's yard and now fend for themselves. People tire of pets and dump them in the forest. Some people, some pets. We see this fairly often. Pitiful animals, not used to the wild. Sometimes they find homes, sometimes I kill them, open them up for scavengers. I don't like putting myself in the position of judge, but I tend toward a harsh view. These ducks will probably be ok. They look strange, a splash of red across the face, black tips on the wing feathers; they stay in the same area and people feed them. On the dole. Maybe it's even a good life, I'm not sure. We feed them, they roost somewhere. Dogs will kill them, probably, they'll get hit by a car. The way of the world. I don't like the way things stand. I'd rather be living in a cave in Utah, a silo in Iowa, someplace where I wasn't impacted by other people's wings and arrows. But I have needs, a light-bulb, power for my computer to write you, whiskey, the occasional piece of meat, tobacco. I'd like to think I'm independent but I'm not, I need you and certain other aspects of the world. It's a delicate balance: sanity and everything else. I need to wash my hair, I feel greasy, it's four-thirty in the morning. I start a fire in the cookstove, heat some rainwater. This is the way we wash our hair, so early in the morning. I'm hungry, so I make a mushroom omelet, potatoes and toast. I swear, this is normal. Nothing seems out of place. The timing is strange, but hey, who am I? The rain might present problems for getting down the hill, but I've never not made it. I need to get to work early because the kitchen sink is fucked, I need to rebuild the drain system, and there's a food thing, lunch, for the April Fool. We found him, smoking a clove cigarette, in the common. We had a spotter, a circling eye, that pin-pointed his location. He's on. Noodling the Baby Grand. He can do that. He also has some electronic requirements, which is why we hunted him down. The impossible is doable, we just need to know ahead of time. I get carried away with language. It's a drug for me. That we found this venue is a plus, I can indulge myself. I don't think you mind if I talk directly at you, we're beyond that, right? I'm ugly, up close, if you look at me closely in a mirror, craters and black hairs; my voice is better, I might talk you off the edge. Or myself. A nod to the knowable. I like it, when the planets are lined up, I feel more confident. April's fool.