Hope On High.

As things appear on the news. The hear is not to far from sinking. We are faced with nothing but a pure abolition of what could be right. It is a dark period.

Spilled Over.

By Paris Hitler.

As the cigarette left my fingers, and the deathly cloud of exhale was drawn from my lungs.

I found myself in a spoil of turmoil.

Somewhere that I had been before.

It's the lack of non walled outfits. The lack of a new tomorrow.

With out fear. With more love.

We are toiling for nothing and achieving less.

This must be hell.

But in the dark, and striving minion. Something finds a way to shine.

Hope.

Hope.

Hope.

I has no reason. It has no formula.

But it is all we have.

I wrote this after I saw the following images. The Daffodil is the mountain flower. It appears as a shote, some make it. Some don't. The ones that do. Are seen below.