"Can I have some help?" You say, bowing your head in shame.
The two of you stand still for a minute, staring at one another. Then, out of the blue, you run to her window and punch it out. Blood and glass cover your arm as you frantically clear the glass with your flesh.
"I don't you." You say, telling the truth. You really don't know what you're doing and why you weren't given a choice. It's like you're being controlled by some higher, though lazy, power, and that power has run out of ideas.
Once the glass is gone, you wave goodbye to Zoey with your broken hand, and then jump out to the pavement below.
Are you concerned that you may be a character trapped in a Tom Waits song? Be smart and learn the warning signs before it's too late. Also, it's too late. It has always been too late.
I'm haunted by a recurring vision of a skeleton flipping me off. To avoid seeing this terrifying image in bumper sticker form, I pay someone with a blank bumper to drive in front of me at all times.
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