I'm your private cancer, a cancer for money, do what you want me to do.
This gun's for hire, even if it's just cancer in the dark.
Hold me closer, tiny cancer.
At least we acknowledge that he can't afford to buy new clothes all the time.
She is eight years old and will talk on down to you.
His arms must get cold easily.
Simmer down. Brooklyn winters aren't that bad.
Everything. She is everything.
Let the man eat his apple pie salad.
And that's the end. Sorry, sometimes they're quick. You get what you get. If you can't wait until Monday when the next one is posted, maybe reread a random older entry.