Idiot Dog Some days are walks in a magnetic suit through clouds of iron and umbrellas rusted inverted. I am tired of swatting at chaos, of banking on unhappy accidents and random catastrophes. I am tired of double-stitching my heart against inevitable rents. In the past I've often said rather than be the optimist perpetually disheartened I want to be the pessimist pleasantly surprised. I am a liar that way. By monstrous coincidence, while rummaging through my trunk of shiny objects and old ransom notes, I put my hand in something cold and viscous and discovered the nature of hope. It is something from nothing. It is conjuring, it is bad math, the millenium locust, or a dish made sloppily with cockatrice eggs. Hope is an idiot dog chasing cars, never knowing what it will do when it catches one.

John Nettles

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