In this picture from the early 1940s, travelers in California’s San Joaquin Valley gather owl’s clover and blue lupine in a field along Route 99.
Tonight the rain is falling, full of memories of people and places/ The hopes we had were much too high, we’re out of reach but we have to try/ The game will never be over, cause we’re keeping the dream alive.
No need to hide, no need to run, cause all the answers come one by one/ The game will never be over, because we’re keeping the dream alive.
Is this considered a wallflower?
How do I even begin to reminisce or describe this New York trip? The moments so fleeting and transient yet so effortlessly meaningful; the moments so mundane and normal, but yet in a country, place and time so amazing and monumental to me. How do I even begin?