It os that kind of day. When I wake up on spring's doorstep and no birds are home to greet me, to get me onto my feet and sing to me again, it is that kind of day. When at ten in the morning I show no sign of movement and remain, eyes squinted, in a makeshift bed, it is that kind of day. When all of my clothes, books, and toiletries sit piled onto a chair in the corner of the room, with little regard to their cleanliness and organization, it is that kind of day.
When someone dies, everyone has to walk a long road. They themselves, a road to on. We, the lowly, a road to moving on. The close, a road to acceptance. And I, a road to belief and hope.
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