No matter how dark the heart, a glimmer of hope must remain… or some other such rot.
However you want to put it, this, I fear, is a fatal flaw in my writing. While I can create incredibly vile villains with intentions wholly wicked and methods incredibly obscene, I inevitably hide a kernel of, well, good somewhere in their withered-up, craggy-edged souls.
Just as a very young Van Gogh once lamented to his brother Theo that he feared he could never draw just landscapes because his brush would always find something figural in the scene, I cannot write a night without the promise of a day.
Or is it?