The heartbeat calls ever for the minds, flesh, and souls of men. Is it any wonder we worship death above all else? For, being but men upon a cursed earth, where shall we find peace but in the house of God? We are uncertain, of course, for none of us know how to cut the runes and make the hanged man come down and talk to us of the hereafter.
I know not where we go, but for the men of peace, the men of self-will and determination, the men of love and passion, the men of artistry and creation, the freemen, I know this: our home is not here.
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