this season is fresh like the mist of the ocean. soft. forgiving. refreshing. the city is torn between slumber and the fruitful taste of the vine. dreamers lay wide eyed staring at clouds with their hearts grasping for answers. the squares sit cross legged with headphones playing banter of a graveside manner. yet, oh how the birds have been dancing. it's a season for the lovers. the half dead and dying. a season for the brave and the ones not only thinking of doing, but the ones who do it without thought. it's a new found glory for the backstreets of all that is everything. this my friends is the season of the dreamer.
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