A little hope, even hopeless hope, never hurt anybody.

Yet I pity the poor wretch, though he's my enemy. He's yoked to an evil delusion, but the same fate could be mine. I see clearly: we who live are all phantoms, fleeing shadows.

Head games make me cry so I stay low
In knowing that 
A bunch of others changed peoples minds
Now I am sad to know the pain 
Which others feel being
In the mist of lost for years
Now the unknown 
Is my new furnace
By which I burn
To not have my desired
Cherry slurpee

people who are busy rowing seldom have time to rock the boat.

Written By John C. Maxwell

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