What of hope, then, in a world set to impede my supply? It reaches around, beyond my reality, closes its eyes and smiles this reply:

Hope is not dead just misplaced. You build paper palaces, paint in grays. Your life is limited to the limits of limitation. You don't even know how to begin hoping. What kind of anticipation is based in an utter unknown? So faith, then, and hope, but in the mean time: love is what you wrap your mind around. And,

Love. Never. Fails.


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