“it’s the little sparks that fly and then land like dynamite…it’s just the simple things, pure incidentals…”
Still I would want to be someone who’d answer to me:
Someone who sees like a child, gives like a saint,
feels like an angel — never mind the broken wings,
and speaks like a picture, cries like the rain, shines like a star,
as long as the fire remains.
Excuse me, are you lost? Perhaps you would care to visit the site map