This is an empty cup.
It contains the hopes and dreams of a generation.
It's not a very large cup. The generation has small dreams, dreams that would have fit a generation in pre-history. Survival first, respect and love next, then somewhere at the bottom of the cup, a little bit of hope that they won't be the last of their kind.
That's not really true.
The hopes that they won't be the last are overflowing the glass. They're filling the room, and the cup is floating on them. All those other hopes and dreams are buoyed by the thought that perhaps, if we can act with hope, we won't be the last.
Whoops. I mean they. Because they are a separate entity, abstracted for their hopes and dreams, distilled... until they fit in an empty cup.
It's impossible to write when a four year old craves your attention.