“Why is it that up north we insist on hard wood, and the closest we ever get to comfort is lining a chair’s seat with cane?” “Because of the church, lad,” Arcadius said, eyeing a stone chair laden with cushions. “Too much comfort means a closer relation to the body and a more distant one from the spirit. Misery makes all of mankind better people.” He took the plunge and collapsed into the all-consuming pillow-chair that hissed as air escaped the cushions. Joining with the pillow’s song, Arcadius sighed contentedly. “I fear that I’m doomed to wickedness.”
