it takes a real proud man to make a girl cry hard. most things a girl can cry off in ten minutes. Tough things. Like giving birth to big *** babies with their big *** heads and ****. But that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the deepest cries. Ones that come from the most hurt-felt part of a woman's soul. Ones that make your eyes close and your stomach sick. Ones that make your whole body freeze, and all you can think is, "i am responsible for this unbearable pain, on such a gentle woman's soul."

i am a master of this art. i have learned the call of the lone woman; almost a swan song, of a dying gentle soul begging to be heard. Begging, for the one who can save her to act before she drowns; to do anything but stand there and stare. Anything but let her die this lonesome death just out of reach of his arms.

i have a recipe for hurt. tested and tried thoroughly over the years, i can now say it is perfected. i can hurt beautiful souls and shatter their wonderful dreams, then so simply turn it around to make it sound like it was their fault. one may say this is a fine delicacy. i say it is the recipe to feed lost souls. ones who will be lost in limbo for all eternity because even in death, their pride was still too big for the afterlife.

there is a special talent i have that is unique for mastering the art of hurt. like x-ray vision it is a power to bring out, in other people, what they don't want anyone to see. i can bring out the worst in a beautiful soul faster than you can look in someone's eyes. i can make monsters of magnificent beings, then call them crazy and be on my way.

Leaving behind a faded tye-dye that's left to hang dry in the sun, knowing that her colours will never shine as bright as they once did, ever again.

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