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By Sebastian Paine

They say home is where the heart is. Someone stole mine long ago.

She carries it with her, in soft hands that play me like a harp, filling the air with vibrations that make my spine quiver and my very essence falter. One by one, the stony walls of reality crumble and lay in rubble at my feet. Through the dust I see truth. Doubt evaporates, and I am filled with a steely conviction. Home is melting in her arms, surrendering myself by her side, basking in her gaze.

I live the life of a vagabond. She is my direction, and all roads lead to her.

Her voice is a siren song, and with her tongue she paints constellations in the sky. Her breath is the wind in my sails, and I look to her starry map for guidance through blackened seas.

I live the life of a hermit. She is my refuge, and in her presence I take shelter from the storm.

Her eyes are the windows by which I see the soul of mankind, the quintessence of love. It is not, as I once thought, an empty promise.

I live the life of a disciple. She is my faith, and by God, I do believe.

Her words carry the weight of prophecy, and her will is law. My spirit mumbles hymns in her praise as I wander blindly towards the promised land, grasping for hope in the night.

She takes my lost, outstretched hands in her own and draws me close. Reunited with my beating heart, I am home.

At last.

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