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Quote by David Byrne & Talking Heads

“Home - is where I want to be But I guess I'm already there I come home - she lifted up her wings I guess that this must be the place I can't tell one from another Did I find you, or you find me? There was a time Before we were born If someone asks, this is where I'll be... where I'll be”

Quote by David Byrne & Talking Heads

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David Byrne & Talking Heads

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“As onerous as certain long-winded tasks are, the key seems to always be the same-- just keep going, just keep going, one foot in front of the other, one bag of garbage filled and out and then the next, one box of important things carefully packed and sealed and then another, more, more, just keep going, one foot in front of the other. And then look what you've got: a new home, a new life, a new play, a production, something you've knitted from fragments of dreams and ideas, something you've woven from yarns and memories, something you've written from yarns and images. One foot more.”

“I want to make buns too!” four-year-old Peter declared firmly. “Then help me knead and roll the dough,” Grandma Iryna suggested, “and I’ll shape and bake all sorts of tasty treats from it.” “Deal!” She lifted her grandson onto a sturdy chair at the edge of the table so he could reach the dough comfortably, then pinched off a small lump for him. “I’ll knead my piece, and you’ll knead yours — together we’ll finish faster,” she said. “Watch me and do the same.” Glancing at his teacher, the boy eagerly began working his dough. Soon he was covered in flour from head to toe. Iryna only smiled and encouraged him, kneading her own dough with skillful hands and humming gentle folk rhymes. — Volodymyr Shablia, Stone. Book One Context note: Set in rural Ukraine before war and repression tear childhood apart, this scene captures a fleeting moment of safety and love — a grandmother teaching her grandson patience, trust, and joy through the simplest ritual of home.”

“Any family could have lived in that room, filling the shelves with bought or borrowed books that eventually overflowed to the short glass coffee table. Porcelain ballerinas and clowns, cartoonish and threatening in their amplified emotions, must have been gifts from doting great-aunts. Three living succulents—I touched them, to check for falsity and perpetual longevity—were equally spaced in front of a thick copy of Elizabeth Bishop’s collected works. My family could not have lived in that room; I could not have lived in that room.”