A million times, a million things I’ve let time decide, left for the universe to conspire. Fancy are those thoughts and foolish, those convictions that make trivialities seem grander as we approach the morrow. Dawn brings with it, a merry chirping, a prayer of hope and a warm embrace and the zephyr.
Days are prayers for the people of night. There was never a god yet we follow suite; we have to know that we’re alright. Hour after hour, my faith demands a margin call. Sell my soul, I shall. It is a good day, after all.