The weariness

of angels.

The well of grief.

Those who will not slip beneath
The still surface on the well of grief,
Turning down through its black water
To the place we cannot breathe,
Will never know the source from which we drink,
The secret water, cold and clear,
Nor find in the darkness glimmering,
The small round coins,
Thrown by those who wished for something else.

-David Whyte

heard in "The Work"

Smile a little wider

as you’re waiting to be sold.

- frickin' Chumbawumba