Hmm.
Right now the road seems grassy... muddy and grassy more like. Well, there I slip, and splash mud all over my crazy toes. And then I feel the sweet old grass under my feet. Oh, how it wipes all that mud away... Let's just hope this road feels my feet only where there is grass. See, there I slip, and then far out somewhere I mend it all. Nice opportunity, if you ask me. But oh, the mud, that's all I can see, splattered over the dewy grass. My crazy feet, they dirtied the sweet, wet grass.
Hope... I do hope that there's no sharp gravel all over the next path I take, far in the distance. Shoes would be good. Maybe I should knit socks out of the grass! Then the road coming next would be much the easier, won't it?
Hmm.
Well, all these roads and all. Why do they hurt my feet so much? Why are there sharp stones scattered all over there in the vicinity and sweet, scented grass growing on the road visible far behind in the distance?
Why do the paths ahead always have to be so grim and deceitful and hungry for blood and bone alike? Why does the path I'm standing on have it's share of cloudiness, too? The mud, it hurts. But the grass is tasty, that's for sure.
It's an excuse, folks. The mud is a damn excuse.
Failure's just hiding behind the curtain.
The sun has to set, they said.
The future always seems brighter than the present, they said.
But, the future, it's always grimmer, they said.
Well, guess what, I can see that road right in front of me. And guess what, no sooner would that be my present.
It will be bad, they said.
Obstacles everywhere, they said.
The grim ones said.
Obstacles, ha. Nature's obstacles, ha-ha. Now comes the revelation, the twisting turn. The future's morose no more, I rule it, I grabbed it in my dirty, black, muddy hands.
I already made my shoes.
Right now the road seems grassy... muddy and grassy more like. Well, there I slip, and splash mud all over my crazy toes. And then I feel the sweet old grass under my feet. Oh, how it wipes all that mud away... Let's just hope this road feels my feet only where there is grass. See, there I slip, and then far out somewhere I mend it all. Nice opportunity, if you ask me. But oh, the mud, that's all I can see, splattered over the dewy grass. My crazy feet, they dirtied the sweet, wet grass.
Hope... I do hope that there's no sharp gravel all over the next path I take, far in the distance. Shoes would be good. Maybe I should knit socks out of the grass! Then the road coming next would be much the easier, won't it?
Hmm.
Well, all these roads and all. Why do they hurt my feet so much? Why are there sharp stones scattered all over there in the vicinity and sweet, scented grass growing on the road visible far behind in the distance?
Why do the paths ahead always have to be so grim and deceitful and hungry for blood and bone alike? Why does the path I'm standing on have it's share of cloudiness, too? The mud, it hurts. But the grass is tasty, that's for sure.
It's an excuse, folks. The mud is a damn excuse.
Failure's just hiding behind the curtain.
The sun has to set, they said.
The future always seems brighter than the present, they said.
But, the future, it's always grimmer, they said.
Well, guess what, I can see that road right in front of me. And guess what, no sooner would that be my present.
It will be bad, they said.
Obstacles everywhere, they said.
The grim ones said.
Obstacles, ha. Nature's obstacles, ha-ha. Now comes the revelation, the twisting turn. The future's morose no more, I rule it, I grabbed it in my dirty, black, muddy hands.
I already made my shoes.
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