The rising apprehension becomes constant, and greatly incomprehensible; there is no room for a different sun. It radiates and radiates, with a bestowed nature that eats its own dust. The handles become unified, with long descriptions by their gates. And the easy becomes rather hard, or so they say, the predicaments of the past are no longer sought, but inevitably lived. We do write to remember a better tomorrow, but we all know that a better tomorrow is a mere nameless dream from the past, if there isn’t ever a better today. A slate of estranged faces is the misfortune of the fortunate present. 

I do not find fault in holding onto hope, but I don’t fancy it, at its whole. I do not see this world as a rising place, where people and their accomplishments are going to make things better, well, at least not for the time being, or perhaps not even for the future. I do see it as so with individuals, but not people, and groups and groups of people, whether that’s flawed logic or not, visually I can’t make such image. They do make things better, at living better, despite the desolation our world has built for itself, and I firmly and simply believe that they will make things better.