At some point, even the greatest misery begins to fade. Life, or what passes for life, plods on in it's own unending weary footsteps, and somehow we plod along with it, if we stay lucky.
Could you imagine a windstorm without the rustling of the leaves? You are made of the same stuff as the leaves__nd the wind. You are meant to be rustled and sung.
A Ceremony Called Life: When Your Morning Coffee Is as Sacred as Holy Water
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Could you imagine a windstorm without the rustling of the leaves? You are made of the same stuff as the leaves__nd the wind. You are meant to be rustled and sung.
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