Hope

There are times when one must relinquish one's hopes of a good outcome. Lean into the scythe, the claws, as though one’s long night's pillow were gently inviting one closer.

This is not that time. Give up no hope, for like real estate, they're not making any more of it. 

Except that one island in Denmark. And Dubai. But you can't manufacture more hope. Hope that is lost goes out to the ether to await again the ones who will conjure it back down to earth. The hopeless just lack the incantation. Or a wand.

But there's no more to be made. A too-cheerful world would mean that millions upon billions go hopeless, for all has been spent. In peace lies the death of hope. 

In comfort lies the death of passions.

Greedily cling to your hope, draw lines and swing swords over hope, lie and deceive for your hope, take leaps of faith to preserve the last scraps of your tapestry of hope. You can get faith by the bundle. Those dumbfuck evangelists breed more of that ragged, rancid meat by the minute. Hope is a finely-aged bottle of wine that’s survived a sea of drunkards. 

And if it's yours, skip the fucking glass and go right to mouth-to-mouth with it.