Fast Gun, Slow Hand

If you pull a fast gun with a slow hand in a midnight alleyway where black cats daydream, and the stench of rotting garbage cleanses your mind, and naysayers sound like truth tellers, and irredeemable ignoramuses come off like optimistic scholars, and jilted lovers and cherished haters transform your tranquil nirvana into a brothel for arsonists, and congeniality becomes a malady, and exactly what is meant remains what is never truly said, and all your clear and happy confessions are struck with sudden hangovers of depression—maybe that’s when you should consider calling in sick to work the next morning.

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