Saints and junkyard dogs are both chained to the detritus of our lives. Wonders and filth, in equal measure, line tortuous routes. Only those who venture through can give an accurate description of this refuse; and, of those few, fewer still look at the mess from more than one angle.
If hope is to be pursued,
one must listen to the tangled words of mystics,
of children, of the witless;
to the speechless color of sky,
the crunch of leaves,
the spangled waters,
the velvet feathers.
Fall into love with this life.
Fall into love.
Fall in love.