"For us, our house is not insentient matter—it has a heart, and a soul, and eyes to see us with; and approvals, and solicitudes, and deep sympathies; it is of us, and we are in its confidence, and live in its grace and in the peace of its benediction. We never come home from an absence that its face does not light up and speak out its eloquent welcome—and we can not enter it unmoved."
—Mark Twain, 1896
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Monday, August 10, 2009

If only

The sun is setting on her life, and as the last few embers burst through the horizon, she flutters with recollections of a spent youth.

If only she could feel that quiver in the pit of her stomach again, and hear the thumping of her heart in her throat. If only she could suffer the crush of yearning, and center its ache to her core.

She would gladly.


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