People speak of hope as if it is this delicate, fleeting thing made of whispers and spider’s webs. It’s not. Hope has dirt on her face, blood on her knuckles, the grit of the cobblestones in her hair, and as…devamıPeople speak of hope as if it is this delicate, fleeting thing made of whispers and spider’s webs. It’s not. Hope has dirt on her face, blood on her knuckles, the grit of the cobblestones in her hair, and as the darkness settles she spits out a tooth as she rises for another go.
