I have hoped, and oftentimes, that has been enough. It is a silver thing, easily bent, and precious enough, beautiful and shining when it is pure. Look in a child’s eye and you will know of what power I speak when I speak of hope. Do you really have the idea of what it is, truly? It is not even to believe something will be, as ethereal as that is; yet it is more than a mere desire, which is at the mercy of the barest whim or can drive men mad. What is hope? Where waking imagination and dreaming mix, a pool of wondering “if” that the heart drinks of. You know that coolness of what I speak. That feeds a soul through deserts. That speaks in silence so profound.