"Is a bird's-nest at your door a bad omen?" Are the words I uttered to my neighbour as I stood over him as he slept. He awoke with a jolt, turned his bedside lamp on and equipped reading glasses.

My hair was the bird's-nest for which I meant, it was unkempt, unbrushed and unwashed. I looked at him with googly eyes, the gaze of a pure menace.

"Shit, Colson. What are you doing here?" He asked in a weary query.

I slumped an elbow on his bedroom wall, damn near shoving his family portrait off it's nail anchor, and then rattled off; "I need to know what time it is, so I know if it's a good time to water the garden. The suns finally hidden so I can come out to play."

He sat up in his bed, walked over to his money chest and began cracking its combination.

"That's some booty you've got there Lad, can I see?" I asked him in a jeer, forgetting my medication timetable fully.

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His safe door creaked open, "Sure." He said as he loaded his Magnum. And waved it for all to see. "I suggest you take a hike. Or you'll leave with less than you came with!" He warned with muted anger.

I frowned In confusion, unaware of what he meant, I began to waddle towards him. I stopped when he aimed the Magnum sight, right for my forehead, "Not one bit." He warned in final. Holding the hammer back.

I found myself on the raw end of a very dangerous side of weaponry, for the first time all week. I edged for his bedroom door, and he followed me out.

As I reached his ajar front door, I strode out, then spun to bid farewell. But before I could muster a word, the door slammed violently, missing my face an inch. I fell on my behind, and I heard it lock with haste. Soon after his lights turned off, except for his bedroom light.

For a moment I really thought my neighbours were starting to come around, that I wasn't that hermit that lived in the park or by the river. That I was one with all. They never really wanted to know of my hippy travels, of my monk stories. All they seemed to notice about me was that I was alive. Their looks of concern turned to looks of horror, and then beyond that bewilderment and awe. I don't know what I was doing wrong?

I wish my parents were around to see this, they'd be horrified, quite scared really. Just like they were when I set our house on fire back in desert storm when I felt "the urge to purge" as I called it at the time.

Ahwell, some people can't look past the voodoo and are destined to become witches witching as the cow moo's in saying. To be is to let live and to let live is to set something ablaze when celebrating the nectar of life. As I was once told before. God bless this nation, except Dr. Parker, or Pepper, or whatever that goddamned doctor is called. Fuck that guy. Now I can't even say hi to my friends without their urge to kill me. Such is life I suppose.