I visited many places, Some of them quite Exotic and far away, But I always returned to myself.

Most of our fears are borrowed. Since that’s the case, we should get busy returning them.

Maybe this was what Aunt Peg meant all along - returning was a weird thing. You can never visit the same place twice. Each time, it's a different story. By the very act of coming back, you wipe our what came before.

All roads out of hell lead home.

In the end, the world returns to a grain.

We hear only our own voices, still echoes returning to our emptiness.

Absolute is a game with only one player where Absolute forgets itself so it would have a reason to fulfill the motion while returning.

for we all have our own twilights and mistsand abyssesto return to.

Facing a language you don't know is like returning to your infancy when your mother tongue used to be a foreign language to you

Connect with people who are going where you are going. Don’t hate people. The person you may need later may be likened to the bridge you have destroyed after crossing it. You’ll need that bridge when returning.

A man goes away from his home and it is in him to do it. He lies in strange beds in the dark, and the wind is different in the trees. He walks in the street and there are the faces in front of his eyes, but there are no names for the faces. the voices he hears are not the voices he carried away in his ears a long time back when he went away. The voices he hears are loud. they are so loud he does not hear for a long time at a stretch those voices he carried away in his ears. but there comes a minute when it is quiet and he can hear those voices he carried away in his ears a long time back. He can make out what they say, and they say: Come back. They say: Come back, boy. So he comes back.

Will you go back?" asked the Lord of the Gallows. "To America?""Nothing to go back for," said Shadow, and as he said it he knew it was a lie."Things wait for you there," said the old man. "But they will wait until you return.

Whenever a river reaches the ocean, it waits to go back..

. . . Thisis not the same river at my fingertips. There are no paths, no sunken roadsfamiliar in the forest, by which we canretrace our steps, by which we can escapeby which we can reclaim and return, or hear the child’s song running in the timothy . . .