Grand Hope parks its way into my heart.
Fountains are flowing over.
Stories being told in bright, beautiful colors while a man shits on the street.
Everyone has their own kind of dignity. Sacred and profane on the same block, in the same museum, in the eyes of the same people. And we're all the same people - in the eyes.
Ink runs dry in all the right places. Some books are meant to grow cold - boxed up and breathless.
Grace is an unpredictable mystery of misunderstanding, until it happens to you.