leaking through each attempt is hope. this hope, that hope; that someday when all will be well, and maybe that day is a long way off, or really, really close. it doesn't matter. not really-- eternally we are prisoners vying for the moment, to appear in our fullness, then or now. let it reveal itself slowly, or violently--it doesn't matter. let it whisper incessantly, with each breath, or emerge with a startling rush of wind. that would be good.