through the desert on a horse with no name

When I feel blue I imagine a field with wildflowers. I am wearing extreme flare light colored jeans and a blue polo. My belt has fringe hanging off the end. I'm running through in platform shoes. My olive green army jacket catches pockets of wind. There are camels with navaho-made blankets on their humps, ready to ride into a spring sunset. Blaring from the sky are all the greatest hits. Cream, Neil Young, the Turtles, the Doobie Brothers, Bob Dylan, all the rest of 'em. The psychadelic folk rock swirls around in perfect surround sound. Wolves howl along with the harmony. There's Cripple Creek lining the forest that begins after adequate space of plains. Towards that topographical line is a small cabin tucked in by some tall weeds and an orange tree. We got a garden too. It's where we live with our 5 flower children. It's the seventies, the time before the future got started. Sitting on the edge of what's next, afraid of the wars, damning the man, mistrusting the system, a dark tone in all our happy songs. One last pure moment of revolution. All turtle's heads raising out of the capacity of the shell, sub-culture taking over, ink tatooing itself, men tucking long hair behind their ears. Groovy.