small brave beacon of hope shining through the turbulence

what makes monsters out of regular people? Or really is that their true selves? How can we talk sense when the whole world is screaming and shouting?

Old apple tree, we’ll wassail thee, and hope that thou will bear. For no one knows where we may go to be merry another year.

trying to see the way out of a dark place

binding my anger

sitting around counting things: blessings, days, hopes&dreams, votes, whatever

be not afraid to be fierce when necessary

night owl, daydreaming