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I love my house . Usually you come home at night, open the gate , and the yard is filled with a mysterious light . After all, each of us is especially dear to that corner of the world where you can be himself , to sit under the thick cover of grape leaves , to dream . I look at the old ones with the mangled bark and vines, and it seems to me that this is my childhood and youth are reflected in the ripe berries. The house he lives. Smoldering embers in the fireplace , a cat lazily basking and purrs . In the courtyard of my house with walnut branches that were bent green canopy over the asphalt track, no , no and yes flew premature yellowing leaves . Home — my pain and joy it gives me wonderful moments of creative insight , plunges into the abyss of doubt and frustration, he is my closest friend and protector . For me , as for others , the house — this is our personal memory , a corner of the heart that we have to keep that gives us the wise precepts of life , beauty, and moral strength .