A strain of thoughts as allowed by the high priest at St. Peter in Walton, MI:
The walls are covered in stains colored various shades of brown. I think a few look the color of rust, like blood after it dries. This is home. The window unit air conditioner hums it's soft, persistent whir. It is music to my ears. This is home. The carpets are ripped and torn at various spots, where animals had tried to find something deeper underneath. This is home. Your body is lying on that torn carpet at the foot of the bed. It is naked and battered and bloody. You look happier now that I have ever seen you. This is home.