Hope is being inconspicuous Hope is sitting on a bookshelf, in the back, behind the outdated encyclopedias and quivers and rustles its pages. This ancient scrapbook is full every paper leaf yields an enigmatic tangle every one with nothing no chance of solving the riddles of a woman gone insane. The answers are rather shy It is Mardi-Gras they wear pencil lines as masks The woman was crazy was blissful was drawing The manic depression let her smile and Hope was there, quivering in the back.
Reason for writing:
It was 4:00 AM on the night of my 14th birthday. I had been up for 23 hours, and I really have no idea what I was thinking at the time. Something deep, I guess.
Birth sign: Not entered
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