All is the same in the lines and the tones.

The spectacle of yesterday and that of to-day are as identical as two picture postcards.

I see my house--the roof, and three-quarters of the front.

I feel a pleasant thrill.

I feel that I love this corner of the earth, but especially my house.
What, is everything the same?
Is there nothing new, nothing?
Is the only changed thing the man that I am, walking too slowly in clothes too big, the man grown old and leaning on a stick?
The landscape is barren in the inextricable simplicity of the daylight.
I do not know why I was expecting revelations.