Here's the thing about promises: you can't make one without losing a piece of yourself. Even if you mean it. Even if it's for the sake of good. Even if it's to your own self. All the hope and the faith and good cheer of promise is fueled by the fear that, somewhere along the way, it will go to pieces.
Broken. Dashed. Devoured.
So much promise in the worldólike handfuls of bread tossed toward a lake of good fortune, pennies glittering up from the mud.
In this issue of sub-scribe, find the places from where it's ripped, see where it landed, discover whether it was gobbled up or if it's still floating out there somewhere. Why track promise? In part to find the promise-makers. What became of them all, without that sliver of hope?