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.
Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the tune without the words And never stops at all.
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Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the tune without the words And never stops at all.
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