Preserve us from the curse of certainty- otherwise there will be no art or poetry. Many practitioners want a lever long enough and a place to stand, yet are surprised when the world doesn't move. Even more surprised are those who find the lever falling like water through their fingers.
In the war of certainty all sides bear the stain. No one escapes the wrath of history, especially not the poets or artists. They are the Guevaras and the Trotsky's, the Molotovs and the Marats, at the end of the revolution, they are expendable.
Hope presents itself as a thickening around the ears and eyes, a mist through which reality and place is only understood imperfectly, if at all. Luck will only confirm a few of the fortunate's experience. The rest will know that the fix is in- their worst suspicions will be justified.
In times like these, it is good to remember the last words of Timothy Leary: "...yeah, why not?"