Where is the home?
...metimes I escaped from my noisy desk and my nosy classmates and climbed up onto the roof, reading the moon with a beer in my hand, my home is the moon... And I miss the time when I was back in Texas, where, I used to have a garden, every morning, every mourning, I counted how many morning glories bloomed, and I always think each of them might be a cute boy that I would met during the day. It took me hours and hours to water them, and I miss the quiet moment at night, I grabbed a glass of wine, sitting under my trees, with all my plants around, whispering to me, silently...a moment that I can put down all the worries... my home is the falling petals.... And the cold, ...