Like all young reporters – brilliant or hopelessly incompetent – I dreamed of the glamorous life of the foreign correspondent: prowling Vienna in a Burberry trench coat speaking a dozen languages to dangerous women narrowly escaping Sardinian bandits – the usual stuff that newspaper dreams are made of.
Seems like God don't see fit to give the black man nothing but dreams – but He did give us children to make them dreams seem worthwhile.
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People's dreams are made out of what they do all day. The same way a dog that runs after rabbits will dream of rabbits. It's what you do that makes your soul not the other way around.
