My cold atheist heart. But don't you see the simple joys of flowers. A flower in my hand like the desperate hope of a woman in naked submission. The heart-breaking pretentions of the pretty grass and everything else like it. What it wants from me. The call goes unanswered in my cold heart.

My new car sparkling in the street. The essence of German engineering shining there in your window. The feeling of taking a corner in my new car. Makes me say yes. My license plate was made by hard criminals in prison. Their lives out of jail filled with the sonofabitch regrets of a Johnny Cash man. The unforgivabilities on their face that informed their art, evidence of the spoils of my profession.

This atheist heart of mine. Oh, I don't suppose I'll ever be forgiven. The cherubs at my feet speak the truth. Their poor old souls boiling with the same old frustration. Their high whiny voices belie the timeless feminine truth. Do you think when I die the Earth accepts my body like the body of any other? What will it think as it holds my heart in the instruments of its will? My license plate was made by hard criminals in prison.