Home is where you return home. Where someone is waiting in the evening. Where you know the wear on the wall, the stains on the carpet, the little squeaks on the furniture. Where you lie down in bed not only sleeping but relaxing. Not only do you relax, you relax. You relax, life, people, everything. Where you are at home is at home. It doesn’t take much. One room is enough. If you’re ten, that’s okay. If you are one of all ten in this, you will return home when you return home in the evening. It doesn’t take much, just a room and a feeling. A very simple animal feeling: that I live here today. There is a bed in which I sleep, a chair to sit on, a stove that gives warmth. And that in this wide, big, and strange world around me, this little place is no stranger and today is mine. I feel good when I look out the window and it’s raining outside or the wind is howling. And that if I come in here tonight, I will find those who still belong to me. This is home. Everyone has a way of doing it. A narrow attic room can also be a home. Also a cellar. You can even have a tent made up of twigs at home. If you add something by yourself. Enough is a flower that you found on the side of the road. A photo you carried in your pocket for years. A book on the table. An alarm clock. What I know: A thousand tiny ducks stick to a man on the go. (…) If you can feel it all: you are not homeless in the world.