A cold wind whispers and stirs a dream into the night.

"Then in the end, it won't matter, that I didn't do all the things I planned. Maybe nothing ever really matters, you only think it does. And all the notches on the belt that you run around gathering - as if the world will count themp up and reward you, declare you human after all - they won't matter either. All that time you could have been lying there under a tree, under a sky, bewildered only by the beauty above you. And still the world would declare the same thing: you are alive. Yes, you are." - Martine Murray, How to make a bird