My Cardboard Balcony

Good Ol' Politics by Belinda Roddie the Blues are fighting with the Reds, and the Yellows are drinking piss-colored sorrow in glass jugs and longing for the good old days when the Browns were clashing with the Purples and the booze was so much better.

After the latest economic collapse, I found myself living in an admittedly rather spacious tent on the corner of one of the busiest, craziest streets in the city. Everyone was scrambling for something. For money, for food, for clothing, for survival. I kept myself huddled beneath my tarp canvas, eating cold and congealed soup from a can and doing my best to keep warm beneath a sleeping bag that was older than I was.