There's so rarely a traffic jam in my mind,
Which is fortunate, but a pleasant surprise.
There must be a hundred things going back and forth
While I'm not looking, for better and worse.
Am I the animal inside, or the man my conscience plays,
The inner scholar or the scumbag who comes back the other way?
I may read, write and study for hours on end,
But I don't discourse with papers. I devour, ravish them.
Even when they're sated, my lusts are never gone,
But since they've done nobody harm, why do I say they're wrong?
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