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“Something inside me dies. I think it is called hope - a little feather drifting in the breeze, staying afloat and dancing until it drops to the ground, trampled under the feet of reality; or maybe it sees that it is fruitless to stick around and flies further on, out of reach and impossible to grasp.” — Martha Kowalski
Something inside me dies. I think it is called hope - a little feather drifting in the breeze, staying afloat and dancing until it drops to the ground, trampled under the feet of reality; or maybe it sees that it is fruitless to stick around and flies further on, out of reach and impossible to grasp.