You will know when I’ve stopped caring about life. You will know when I’ve given up all hope. You will know because I will arrive on your doorstep sporting a neckbeard. It will be thick and bushy and rather nasty to behold. But until then, if you see me clean-shaven or with facial scruff or with something creative above the lip or beside the ears, you will know that hope remains.
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I love the ironic optimism.
I love the imagery.