"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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Wednesday, April 27, 2011

I’m afraid I must admit that I’ve missed the camaraderie of friends who used to come by just to sit a spell. It’s been rather lonely since I locked the door and discovered that nobody was here, except for the ones who are always here. I didn’t realize how much I actually looked forward to seeing new people come, go and wander about from room to room. No umbrage to those who are always here, of course………

I suppose I have a point to make. But between there and here, I think that that point fell over the edge and just slipped away. In fact, it is highly suspect that if there was indeed a point to make at all that I would feel compelled to corroborate that point here. Which proves that the point I thought I was making, in actuality, was no point at all.
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