The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible. ~Vladimir Nabakov
Is it belief or desperation? Do you search for the Messiah in each moldy crumb you're given, in every hour you're starving, on the wings of a small prophet, on cloudy horizons drifting, on the brink of your salvation, in a Truth only man defines?
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