When we got to Boston, we knew we'd missed a turn.

No one back in traffic school had

told us there are signs that can't be learned.

Geography's too stubborn and people are too clear,

so let's go find a road-side motel with a clerk who won't tell.

Days will turn into nights, nights will turn into days, weeks, seasons, and years.

We'll stay for years.

Red and white for blood cells, red and white for wine.

They could be the whole damn spectrum if

we'd all just let them. Lord, it's such a crime...

white
weeks
years
learned
guess
cells
missed
debts
atlases
signs
traffic
crime
people
blood
clawing
forget
attendants
station
knows
floor
boston
everybody
about
whole
concern
forge
double
outside
kitchen
stands
clerk
clear
spectrum
waistband
motel
little
nights
penthouse
passing
stubborn
reason
smidgen
regrets
slowly
strip
working
could
seasons
school
there
wasteland

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