Home is where the heart is.

He turned away. That, out there, was hell: a place devoid of human compassion, or humanity for that matter. It was a darkness that had taken over his core and left him a lazy puppet to his own misery. A single emblem stood that told the story of his existence. Sitting upon the counter, colored yellow with the wear of the years sat a small sign: "Home is where the heart is." Was, he thought to himself. At first glance, it was just another piece of fake art, in a world full of fake things: a carpet of color long forgotten, walls belying protection from the elements, a little plate tinged with dust, losing its color and its heart as he stood there watching. However, this was the view of a outsider. He knew better. This one was special. It was hand crafted on stone imported from a quarry in Italy, the only place in the world where this stone could be found. It had taken years of gentle patience and warming to make this stone, the heat and pressure in the Earth's crust had gently molded it into the glory that it is. No. The glory that it was. The shiny white surface had been decorated with the gentle strokes of an experienced hand. He had visited shortly after he bought his first house. A nice villa overlooking the mountains, a place of calm, quiet resolve that reflected his own rise up the societal ranks. He was born of this darkness, but had been molded into a gentle form that burned brightly, perhaps too brightly. That is after all how he ended up back here, he gently melted away and returned to a pile of wax, devoid of form, devoid of passion, without body and spirit. His life was one of prophetic existence: from ashes to ashes and dust to dust. He was destined to live with pomp and circumstance and die with a small, silent whimper.