Emily Dickinson was crazy. I think I like crazy people best

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words and never stops at all

And sweetest in the gale is heard and sore must be the storm, that could abash the little bird that kept so many warm

I've heard it in the chillest land and on the strangest sea, yet never in extremity it asked a crumb of me

Hope is integral to our existence. I don't fully understand it yet, but it's almost as if we were made to hope. Or maybe that's to never lack. Perhaps hope is a form of some distant call reminding us there is so much more than our present condition