the lost man chronicles
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home is where the heart is

The frantic search for my winter gloves this morning ended up being a comical parody of my (love) life.

For after futilely looking high-and-low and far-and-wide for them for fifteen minutes—first in the cedar closet in the attic, then in my closet on the second floor, and alas, on the coat racks in the basement—at last I found them in the very place where it had dawned upon me to wear them in the first place—tucked away in the corner of the vestibule closet.

And so, as with life itself, I had made a haphazard episode out of misguided memory and misapplied deductions—ultimately coming full-circle to discover that what I had been looking for was in the same place where I had decided to look elsewhere.

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