"hope is a thing with feathered wings"

Who holds the rifle?

I wanted to hand out the words to save your soul. The kind of words that animate, that crawl inside your head to live and breathe hope. Then she called me naïve, he said I was a dreamer, and they called me young - like hope is a condition I’ll grow out of.

Looks like hope is a condition to be beaten into submission, into graves.

The problem with some is that they've lost their taste for dreams. They could spew when they hear about someone chasing a shooting star. Success, and they call it a miracle, failure and "I told you so." I won't let this be me.

I may be beat down in moments, but in the end, just because I may not see my star clearly doesn't mean I'm slowing down this run.

Mold #4 for sold on March 21, 2007: $10 donated to the American Cancer Society