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Well, we have Noah, with no circumstance
Because he's a quadriplegic.
Who wouldn't call you friend unless
you knew him well enough he let you change his diaper.

But Noah had a car
He'd saved up all his love his whole life
to put in that car before they ever met.
He used to put all his hands into her life.

A '65 Falcon, an emperor's throne.
You couldn't put God in this thing to convince it
to run any smoother or safer or truer.
She and Noah never made a mistake.

Noah still don't let 'em handle his car.
She's been well-behaved, she's kept up her shape,
they both deserve to wait for the deserved day.
He tells me he's tired of counting.

He tells me he wants his hands on his car.
To be reckless and pointless and drink the ground together.
He tells me he might even write if he could.
Self-help to him, they would not call it this.

If and when he leaves we might sell the car
gradually, the parts are worth more
Or we could sell it as a shrine, one unit
in respect of keeping what hands have given.

Nobody knows what hell we'll do with Noah.

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