The pitter patter of rain against cobblestones is oddly comforting. Normally, he’d spend days like this curled up like a cat at a window, trying for the fourth time to finish reading The Divine Comedy.
His sisters had always hated the way he treated the books he read--cracking the spine and dog-earing the pages.
He’d always said that the wear on a book showed how loved it had been--the best books have the covers falling off from years and years of rereading.
The spine of this one is intact, only one page dog-eared.
His eyes lazily drag across the page he’s opened it to.
Love, that exempts no one beloved from loving,
Seized me with pleasure of this man so strongly,
That, as thou seest, it doth not yet desert me;
Love has conducted us unto one death;
Caina waiteth him who quenched our life”
These words were borne along from them to us.
He has no energy for the damned today.