"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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A writer without destination
Waiting for the rain.
Buttermilk sky.
~
Writers.
Dreamers.
Another world.
~
Anomalous.
Clear-eyed.
It is what it is.
~
We live apart from you on the periphery of your reality,
having none of our own.
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