"We are dreaming of a new day when the new day's here already. And we are running from the battle when it's one that must be fought."
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𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺, 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘏𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 "𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧," 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦. 𝘞𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘢 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘶𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘶𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳. 𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭—𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵, 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧𝘭𝘺, 𝘸𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘶𝘱.