Tomorrow is another day. Just like how today is yesterday’s tomorrow. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. The sun will come out tomorrow. Hope for tomorrow. That is what they tell me. And today (yesterday’s tomorrow) I don’t feel that hope. You want me to look forward to what is to come. How can I do that when it rained this morning, despite some red headed orphan’s lament. I am sure I am just closing myself off from all the hope in the world as a way to get attention. I think those are even the exact words that the school counselor even used, right before he shut is leather folder, stuck a wide hopeful smile on his face and said “Tomorrow is another day,” through his gritted teeth. I wonder if he ever listens to his own advice. Probably not. If he had hope for this world do you think he’d be a pack a day? If he looked for the brightness in the world do you think he would have to always hide his forearms? No. Just like me he is a coward. We don’t hope for tomorrow. We hope for the end of tomorrow. Or at least that is the closest thing to hope we ever get. Even at the end of tomorrow, we are still left sad because that ginger brat is still singing in our ears. We can’t escape this epidemic of hope for tomorrow, despite our vehement hope for an end.