He is now resting. He is now at peace. Our nation hast lost its greatest son. Our people have lost its father.
There is something about poverty that smells like death. Dead dreams dropping off the heart like leaves in a dry season and rotting around the feet; impulses smothered too long in the fetid air of underground caves. The soul lives in a sickly air. People can be slave-ships in shoes.
-Zora Neale Hurston, Dust Tracks on a Road: An Autobiography
(New York: HarperCollins, 1996), 87. (Originally published 1942)
(Source: vigilanteespresso, via freemanda)
So wild flowers will come up where you are.
You have been stony for too many years.
Try something different.