Somedays I yearn for my home, where I come from? perhaps where I belong.
My home in my mind is the place I grew up.
The church bells through the city during lunch time
The Muezzin so zealous, the monring call to pray, sounds like one made in the middle of the day.
The beach, the sand under my feet, the smell of the draw of the day resting in baskets waiting to be picked up.
Nothing feels like my home like the two bricks, on the same line spaced out by measuring your two feet