The road is slick or the wheels are bare or the car is just not handling well... and I am well.... well. When we begin to plot (but not plan) we find that beige is not the true color of romance but more like the sound of rocks slipping from a clif's edge. At the end of this rainbow is fuzzy kangeroo named. "Kenny." And this is not our truth. This is not our fault.
If you care to listen. Listen proud. Do not, however, over power the last thought that was never had because that was a fragile laughter of all.
Yes. This is the sign.