Somewhere along the line, the pearl would be handed to me.
I was surprised, as always, be how easy the act of leaving was, and how good it felt. The world was suddenly rich with possibility.
It was the work of the quiet mountains, this torrent of purity at my feet.
Between incomprehensible and incoherent sits the madhouse. I am not in the madhouse.
Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.
It always makes me proud to love the world somehow- hate's so easy compared.