I have seen Humans in the clearing who never knew their hearts were in the world, or knew but didn’t care, or found their hearts in other forms, and were waiting for them still. I saw them, and I knew them, and I knew which they were, whether the companions for which they waited were Dogs or Horses or—in a few rare, terrible cases—nothing at all, whether they had lived their lives so outside the possibility of love that they had never found comfort outside the sanctums of their skins. Those Humans, who have never learned to love anything other than themselves, find only one route from the
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