"I like it here too. And you have made life here very special for me. But there is no place like home," she said, a woebegone expression on her face. She lay her head on his chest and he stroked her hair for a while, wondering what he could say to comfort her. Then an answer came to him. "In that same sense," he pointed out, "Canada isn't really anyone's home, except for aboriginal people." "What do you mean?" He told her the story of Canada, the real story. Not the dates and acts of dead white men, but the story of migration and upheaval. It was a tale that ran from orphan French girls desperate for a husband in the seventeenth century to Scots fleeing massacres in the eighteenth; from Irish dying of famine to Italians fleeing overpopulation to Sri Lankans running away from war and Hardcore poverty. For centuries, the long line of defeated peoples had trekked across the oceans amateur to find a new place for themselves in this cold land of the north. All struggled with feeling homesick and lonely and foreign. All battled hostility and suspicion from predecessors who had forgotten their own origins. All learned to thrive, mixing the old traditions and the new, synthesizing a way of life that worked for them. Finally, perhaps as usual, a song, U2's Walk On , captured his feelings better than anything he could have said. "Home. Hard to know where it is if you've never had one. Home. I drunk can't teen say where it is, but I know I'm going Home. That's where the heart is. And I know it aches, And your heart, it breaks, And you can only take so much. Walk indian on..." Tony halted at that point, realizing the next lines, leave it behind, you've got to leave it behind, were probably not appropriate to the situation. He just sat there for a while, cuddling her against him, listening to her breathing. It did not occur to him that she could always google the entire song later. Manjula came late to math class that afternoon. “That's why. I thought my life was ruined by suffering from Futanari Syndrome, one of the rarest conditions in the world. good?" His long hair was tied up in a man bun, and he amateur had a goatee encircling his lips. Letting it nuzzle where the tip was directing his hot thick cum down Hardcore to her belly. She directed me indian to a chair at the foot of the table. Gratitude and a heady mixture of pleasure and contentment filled all the parts of my body I could still feel. She once again announced that Clara was the winner. I nodded and took that deep breath. As on queue Ronja heard John knock on the door. I bent over, with my ass intentionally to the drunk man and teen pulled on the skirt.