Hours flew by in optimistic anticipation, unmarred by the apathy of fact. As time went and his mind soared, a sense of certainty developed; a causality without cause. The plan must work, yet it was sure to fail, a desperate act of a lonely child, thirsty for love and fed up with injustice. He saw this, yet he turned his back to the ugly truth, staring into a sullen future. The plan had to work, not due to ingenuity or skill or blessing, but because it was the only plan. Losing would mean there were no ladders, only shovels to dig a deeper hole. Phyl had hope, not because he believed, but because he didn't.
From my current WIP. It really got to me, so I thought I'd share.