"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 15, 2011

Journal entry


Within the momentum of mediocrity,  we live our lives.

For some of us, Winter has slipped-in unawares, on cat paws, as it were. Our psyche tells us it is still Springtime notwithstanding the reality of the matter. We medicate, each one in our own way, as we’re enjoined to be silent while Spring enters the Ring for a final battle.
Is there time to be young again?
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