can greatness be achieved by a mind that never sleeps, a heart that regularly weeps with eyes that often seep? On nights he rests, he wakes beneath cold pillows and to soft shoulders that have the tendency to turn. Into weathered hands paired with rough voices but blind eyes that have long lost their ability to find solid ground where light is scarce, he seeks comfort but only finds emptiness and uncertainty. & on an unsteady path least traveled.. despair is inevitable. Faith has been abandoned and all hope has been placed into his intuition to lead him in right direction.
What ever is the right direction?