It's times like these, when I'm caught in the small hours, that I feel like a prisoner inside myself. That doesn't make a lot of sense though... am I the prison, or the prisoner? Both, I think. I feel despair as a warm, soft hand cupping my face, supporting the dead weight of my head as my tears slowly soak the tangled ends of my hair, gathered in the foreign comfort of open palms. Inside I am so lonely. Outside I can only hope my flawed love serves a fruitful purpose. I want what's best but it hurts. I don't want it to hurt anymore.
Lets end this with a picture of a 6 and a half foot man dressed in a black leotard top and frilly tutu with a blond wig and tall black prostitute boots ordering a Whatacatch sandwich at Whataburger. When he ordered it, the cashier looked at him and said, "What A Catch you are!" To which the guy replied, "Who did you think they named the thandwich after, thithter?"
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