Which bloody $#&@ing ones of these are pieces of me?
The entire !@#$ street is scattered with me.


What the hell was I thinking?
As if I would not get my $$# whooped black and blue by singing those things out loud.
A break in the clouds.

A pitiful excuse for a go signal.
No one really wants anything different.
So let me just get my %#@! together, gather my limbs, broken glasses and teeth, spit the metal out of my mouth and get real.


No, no.
This is not... definitely not a problem.

More like a situation.
Let me just walk the $#&@ away from here.
As far as possible from the mercury street.