There is something about poverty that smells like death. Dead dreams dropping off the heart like leaves in a dry season and rotting around the feet; impulses smothered too long in the fetid air of underground caves. The soul lives in sickly air. People can be slaveships in shoes.
Zora Neale HurstonEverybody has some special road of thought along which they travel when they are alone to themselves. And his road of thought is what makes every man what he is.
Zora Neale Hurston