Driving down winding roads through rolling hills. The hills seem to be everywhere, the roads seem to go forever toward nowhere, surrounded with new wheat planted beneath blue skies, bright sun, fluffy clouds.
Gripes, Kudos, Why on earth? If you don’t speak out, who will know to care?
Driving down winding roads through rolling hills. The hills seem to be everywhere, the roads seem to go forever toward nowhere, surrounded with new wheat planted beneath blue skies, bright sun, fluffy clouds.