One o'clock, two o'clock, three o'clock...

“The blood dried on his good hand, he passed his palm over her hair. It curled about his wrist and sprung back into place as the breeze fluttered by. In the firelight, it was golden like the dandelions of which she’d spoken. The ones that had grown along the Franklin riverbank in late summer. The ones he had lost any faith in since he’d committed his first murder there.” ― V.S. Carnes

Every day to and from work I walk down a path in the middle of houses and office buildings, that used to be a tram track and is now a wonderful strip of green in the middle of the urban jungle...I love seeing it change over the seasons. Dandelions are having their first flush...