A contempt for my lack of discipline, Cerberus run free. Neighbors made aware “he mustn’t be trusted—hardly a hound can keepeth he!” Embarrassment. Shame at mine lost whip, too; my back never met the lash. And here I sit: exposed and head hung. And if silently trot mien shmerzhunt to avoid detection, to spare me hot coals, then surely my own posture will betray me. Throw off the morality of mores and return to us the anchors—oh please!—lest we leave the ground. How fearful we’ve become of a harmless contradiction. Each yoke invisibly weighs heavy on the other.