“He leaped onto a pedestal bereft of its statutory, and on this surface he posed and flexed and shook his fist at the God he believed in. Looking at this monument he’d made to our anger, I saw that we were children still, but mercenary children, half-murdered troublers. I had to wonder what such a child looked like. I stalked about the velvets of this tearooms looking for some opportune reflection. But the darkness was unrelenting; the shards of glass said nothing about appearances at all.”