In the hallway full of road signs, they're all therapists, their headlight eyes blinking out suggestions for change. Yield is a metaphor for sexuality, turning left is a cry for moderation, stop; you know I never talk about her. And though I may say that they should turn that all-powerful bright light eye on themselves I know it is I, am in the wrong, as surely as Jesus knows I'm a sinner and my father knows I'm no good at taking punches.

 

 

 
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