They call it home,
That place we hang our hats
And watch TV
And make our coffee.
And what is home if not
A pile of bricks that welcomes us silently each night when we return from work
And shelters us from the dark and menacing sky?

When I was in college, I would take the train
Back to Philadelphia, then a bus five miles west to my hometown.
I couldn't wait to run upstairs to my old room
And curl up in a fetal position on that fuzzy, green floor covered with wall-to-wall carpeting.
There was something magical in that room -- something womb-like --
That has eluded me ever since.

Brick by brick, I have Built my future,
A future strong enough to beat back hurricanes and financial disasters,
A future built to stand the test of time.
And yet what are these mighty structures but empty shells that we scurry back to every night seeking love and comfort?

Knock one down, build another. Repeat.
That's the recipe for success here in New York.
It's hard to remember what was there before.

Yet, seeking an island of stability, we roam the world,
Pitching our tents, packing our bags, raising our children
And doing it all over again,
Leaving our broken dreams and ruined cities behind us.

Aren't we all just baby snails dreaming about crawling back to our childhood bedrooms,
Longing for the embrace of home?