Perhaps, as Cardinal Zizka said, one must sometimes use the weapons of the enemy against them, but if the righteous will stoop to any depths, what separates them from the wicked? Where was the line? Was there a line? Brother Diaz really didn’t want to live in a world without lines and yet, through no apparent fault of his own, here he was, wondering if a severed head had always had a lisp. Perhaps there had never been any lines. Perhaps the whole idea of lines was a consolatory fairy tale it had suited him to believe.
