Love, Sex, Dreams, and a quick note

Love is the plant that weeps in the corner of an office that’s crowded with cubes.
Sex is the pot of money labeled “nature fund” on the desk of the secretary.
Dreams are the emptiness that fills that pot, and hope is the loose change in the worker’s pocket.

Just a quick note — Does it mean it’s shit when I pull it out of my ass? Even if I don’t have to wipe?