Now of old the name of that forest was Greenwood the Great, and its wide halls and aisles were the haunt of many beasts and of birds of bright song; and there was the realm of King Thranduil under the oak and the beech.
The Universe, she’s wounded. She’s got bruises on her feet. I sat down like I always did, and tried to calm her down. I sent her my warmth and my silence and all she sends me back is rain.
The Universe, she’s wounded but she’s still got infinity ahead of her, she’s still got you and me, and everybody says that she’s beautiful.
The Universe she’s dancing now. They got her all lit up, lit up on the moon. They got stars doing cartwheels, all the nebulas in tune and the Universe, she’s whispering so softly I can hear all the croaking insects, all the taxicabs, all the bum’s spent change, all the boys playing ball in the alleyways, they’re just folds in her dress.
— Gregory Alan Isakov
You’ve become so damaged that when someone tries to give you what you deserve, you have no fucking idea how to respond.