Home is like the albino tree shedding it’s leaves, it’s like a summer time moment unable to be potrayed by that photograph you managed to snap. Baking bread, or cooking meals, it’s a frozen hearth thawed by heat emmited from the dwellers’ hearts. Through the heating vent, songs of all type emerge, from Mexican gospel songs, to Adelle’s “rolling in the deep” all the way to African hymns, it’s a vocal concert. The constant tapping on the computer keys, like mice scurring about, inspires the thought of straight A papers and enrapturing essays. Home….where milk flows like honey, boutifull and rich, and where beans satisfy the babe’s hunger that runs vast.
Saturday morning, the sun peaks through the crack between the window shades, sprinkling light onto my immaculate white walls.
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