What if, in the middle of dystopia and poppycock and all the braying noise of the world, fate yet took you by the hand smiling? Stopped you right in the middle of what you weren't really doing and turned your head just so. Enough for you to sigh and spy the beautiful blindfolded goddess staring you down, the horn of plenty in her outstretched hand.

Revolution begins and ends in the dark corridors of heavy hearts. Out past the breaking point of loss and great griefs, beyond despairing resignation to currents and conditions. Sparked at the tiny cardiac altar when hope flickers low, craving a gust of wind or a strike of lightning to raise its flames to crackling.