I would like to believe the ideas that come to play in our head, the ones that go perfectly in line. That is the single purest form of hope before the brilliant lighting dawn of invention, insane movements and remarks. World changing before the thought. 

And if lucky the few will compromise with the perfect idea and not let the hope die down and run along with it. And before you know.

Boom. You are a fucking genius. A crazy, fucking genius. You did it. You brought your idea out into physical form and stared at it. And what people are. What you did for the world, whether or not beneficial. That is not even existing.

The single hope formed from an idea kept, or much likely just swept away nowadays with the fear of embarrassment or failure. You will not fall. 

You are an idea. You are the hope. You don’t need to let yourself fall, in fact. You can’t as long as you’re breathing this luck of a world.