A house without wheels is not a home.

Cold morning chill raises bumps on my skin.  It is a foreboding of what was and may yet come again. Who are you who knocks at dawns door and enters my home. No not a home the temporary dwelling. Silky soft false hopes of what is not to come or never will be I search again for a home.  How lucky the turtle to carry it on his back.

A house without wheels is not a home.

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