Remembering Home
Home bleeds into all the things and people you love, and like a hole in your chest, there’s the reminder of where you’ve come from and how you got here.
Home bleeds into all the things and people you love, and like a hole in your chest, there’s the reminder of where you’ve come from and how you got here.
We can’t lay on cool grass, pick green blades, count quiet stars. We are the lost generation. Stillness makes us stagnant.