A few nights ago, a friend of mine and I were out shooting a farm wedding just south of Cincinnati in Kentucky. And well, as luck would have it, I took a wrong turn on our way back to the city and ended up an hour south of where we were supposed to be (oops!) in the literal middle of no where Kentucky. 

But it really is awesome to get lost every once in a while because more often than not, you'll probably end up loving where you find yourself. And that's exactly what happened here. 

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light

Poem by Dylan Thomas