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Monday, February 3, 2014


“Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.”
Emily Dickinson

Sometimes it seems silly to hope for things. What good does it do, after all, save put a small, secret smile in the corners of your mouth? I'm a natural-born cynic, but still...hope remains, unfurling in tender shoots like new fern leaves in the shade. And in the face of hope, bleeding fingers feel worth the pain.

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