blindondaysendinginy

It is two in the morning. I had a coughing fit and  it hurt. Being sick the first days of autumn sucks

blindondaysendinginy

"Hope" is the thing with feathers 
          That perches in the soul 
          And sings the tune without the words 
          And never stops at all 
          And sweetest in the Gale is heard 
          And sore must be the storm 
          That could abash the little Bird 
          That kept so many warm 
          I've heard it in the chillest land 
          And on the strangest Sea 
          Yet, never, in Extremity, 
          It asked a crumb — of Me.
          
          Emily Dickinson