home

Don__ forget that the land is always out there, making its way, doing everything it can so you can breathe fresh air; so you can eat fresh food; so you can move and see and feel and think, and it__ on your side. The world is out there doing what it__ been doing way before you came here, it__ firm and strong and it takes a lot to bring it down.so from time to time, just go outside and look at this spectacle. This pure painting right in front of your eyes. No one created it. No one owns it. It doesn__ want anything. It doesn__ need to prove anything to anyone. It simply is. So maybe, try a little tenderness. Just give it a chance to do what it can do. Just let it help you breatheand eatand moveand seeand maybe just try to live your life in a way that doesn__ kill this force of naturethat is just trying to give you a world worth living in. A clean world. A fresh world. Paths, forests, oceans, animals, oxygen, water. That__ all it takes.Just try a little tenderness towards this world we__e been lucky enough to build our homes on. If you take care of it, it will take care of you.

The vast and beautiful world is the home we share together.

The river of my village doesn__ make you think about anything.When you__e at its bank you__e only at its bank.

Nature is not a place to visit. It is home.

Lisbon, to me, is the Lisbon of Pessoa. Just like London is Woolf__, or rather, Mrs. Dalloway__. Barcelona is Gaudí's and Rome is da Vinci__. You see them in every crevice and hear their echoes in every cathedral. I__ like to be the child, or rather, the mother of a city but I neither have a home nor a resting place. My race is humankind. My religion is kindness. My work is love and, well, my city is the walls of your heart.

We wander in our thousands over theface of the earth, the illustrious and the obscure, earning beyond theseas our fame, our money, or only a crust of bread; but it seems to methat for each of us going home must be like going to render an account.

We wander in our thousands over theface of the earth, the illustrious and the obscure, earning beyond theseas our fame, our money, or only a crust of bread; but it seems to methat for each of us going home must be like going to render an account.We return to face our superiors, our kindred, our friends--those whom weobey, and those whom we love; but even they who have neither, the mostfree, lonely, irresponsible and bereft of ties,--even those for whomhome holds no dear face, no familiar voice,--even they have to meet thespirit that dwells within the land, under its sky, in its air, in itsvalleys, and on its rises, in its fields, in its waters and its trees--amute friend, judge, and inspirer.

May the stars guide you on your journey, and your heart always lead you home.

They taught the women that the home is a shame and in doing so, they successfully decomposed nations. Instead of it being the greatest honour to build a family, it became a laughingstock. And in this becoming, they successfully deconstructed nations. They taught the men that loyalty is merely an option and in doing so, they successfully destroyed nations. Instead of it being the greatest pride to love one woman, it became a joke, a funny side comment. And in this becoming, they successfully poisoned nations. Your home is your atom, your cell, your genome. Your love is your honour, your word, your truth. You wonder why we live in deconstructed nations, you ask one another why you live on torn fibres, cracked ground, and yet you continue to listen to what they tell you. You have put shame where there should be a throne, you have placed a joke where there should be a crown. You have successfully destroyed your nations.

Wherever, I am welcome, there is my home.

We can only love one another deeply from the heart, for there is home of sacredness.

Whatever happens in the world - whatever is discovered or created or bitterly fought over - eventually ends up, in one way or another, in your house. Wars, famine, the Industrial Revolution, the Enlightenment - they are all there in your sofas and chests of drawers, tucked into the folds of your curtains, in the downy softness of your pillows, in the paint on your walls and the water in your pipes. So the history of household life isn't just a history of beds and sofas and kitchen stoves ... but of scurvy and guano and the Eiffel Tower and bedbugs and body-snatching and just about everything else that has ever happened. Houses aren't refuges from history. They are where history ends up.

ITS nomimal without all on transfer of regard, that weight of a measure of lines cannot be equal in comparison. The want of privacy is a need of personality not character. Only through devotional love not modernity can you coolect the past, present and future. Timeless is not what you think or hear. Patience is not any big reveal. Never see make how all free?

He sat down on a grassy bank and looked at the city that surrounded him, and thought, one day he would have to go home. And one day he would have to make a home to go back to. He wondered whether home was a thing that happened to a place after a while, or if it was something that you found in the end, if you simply walked and waited and willed it long enough. He pulled out his book.

My heart is my home.

Body is a home, a prison and a grave.

...The happy Warrior... is he... whose powers shed round him in the common strife, or mild concerns of ordinary life, a constant influence, a peculiar grace; but who, if he be called upon to face some awful moment to which Heaven has joined great issues, good or bad for human kind, is happy as a lover; and attired with sudden brightness, like a man inspired; and, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law in calmness made, and sees what he foresaw; or if an unexpected call succeed, come when it will, is equal to the need: he who, though thus endued as with a sense and faculty for storm and turbulence, is yet a soul whose master-bias leans to homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes; sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be, are at his heart; and such fidelity it is his darling passion to approve; more brave for this, that he hath much to love:_

Leaving town I sat next to a senseless and beautiful boywho asked where I live.His unwashed hair or the way his eyes were just eyes_the soul is a tiring thing. You can have it.I don__ know what you mean__ what I told him.It__ more simple than that. I__ just passing through.