"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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Saturday, April 17, 2010

Journal entry




Birds sang their melodies; wind-chimes tinkered on the back of a light breeze; a lawn-mower hummed somewhere in the distance; the ocean's scent filled the air, and my newly bloomed roses shed their perfume.
I sat in the lone Adirondack chair, just outside my kitchen window near the maple tree, and closed my eyes to the seduction of the day.

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Terracina/San Felice

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