Re: Victor F/Mina M
I spent years with a man who read, though I only remember vagaries. Words on pages, poems read over and over, the candlelight flickering and his voice in my ear. He introduced me to my first cracked spine, to the scent of leather binding and paper's crinkle. He taught me of Mr. Keats.
But imagine if we, all of us, lost belief together. If there was no end to this life, no punishment truly horrid. Nothing real to fear, because we fear ending more than anything else.