A trip, a drip, a slip, all the things one can hope for in the California sun. A wave, a high, a purpose, a difference. Shutting one door, and opening another.
Exactly what has to be, or it shall continue to be routine. Smothering, hovering, covering, fluttering, and far from ideal. It’s crowded in a way that is no way fun or helpful to find success in your dreams. Regardless of the lust that satisfies my fantasies, dreams are made from the seeds planted, not the harvest we take from them.
Summer comes three, hopingly, four months of the year here. In the west, clouds cannot suppress the shine Cali comes with. Sunday’s that will saturate your instincts, sedating the senses, to believing the grass is greener where you are not.