Feathers The weight of the world is a feather in the hand of its maker. It does not burden, break, or bury the one who reigns outside of Time and Space's domain. Our behemoths are merely single barbs attached to that weightless shaft that flutters like the forest's souvenirs given to a child, fallen from the wings of a jay. In his hand our juggernauts are not threats but specimen. His palm is large enough to hold worry ad infinitum. Push the crushing fear off your chest and rest, knowing that it's but a harmless feather fluttering in your father's hand. Justin Farley
