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what dreams are made of

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These past few days have been the kind of days that books are written about, songs sung about, and dreams dreamed about. Nothing--words or photographs or anything in between--cannot properly describe fairytale days like these for fear of belittling the sheer perfectness of it all; only the clucking of the hens, the sparks floating up to the night sky, the sun gently prying open my eyelids in the morning, yesterday's makeup and smoke clinging to my clothes, ice cream a few licks away from dripping down my arm, and the feel of wading waist deep through fields of wheat can begin to tell the story. And when the last harmonica strains die away, the big and little dipper melt into dawn, and the ink has faded from our skins, the memories will come back with tomorrow's starry night, the smell of warm sun on wheat, and the lingering smell of campfire and we will swear to never ever forget.


do yourself a favor and watch this video in hd || music by benjamin francis leftwich