sitting on the hill of dreams, the house behind us in a field of golden grasses made of the very same dreams. holding hands, we speak of the parents who raised us and how they left a large wake in the hearts and the minds of ourselves. we then think about the wakes we'll leave in the children we make and love and chastise and hope for. thinking of a tiny, raven haired, little girl with eyes as blue as the ocean surf down below our lovely house. she'll grow into our home, filling it with hopeful dreams and metal guitar strings and black and blue and floral and gold. maybe a singer, a painter, a reader, a writer, a lover, a fighter, a dreamer. growing into that beautiful girl with long black hair like the inky sky and eyes like the deep deep inquisitive, mysterious ocean and legs long, with a purpose of going the distance. she'd want to go around the world, around the ocean in a bright red sail boat, sails of heavy, wind lifted canvas. though for now, we are stuck here, as she will be too. desperate to find a way into the realism of the world, though we only wish to dream away the time and the love we share.