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The burgeoning light. The tender hissing of the grass. Jutta opens her eyes but doesn’t look at him. “Don’t tell lies. Lie to yourself, Werner, but don’t lie to me.”
“Doesn’t look like much, does he?” murmurs Frederick. “Hardly a couple of ounces of feathers and bones. But that bird can fly to Africa and back. Powered by bugs and worms and desire.”
“But we are the good guys. Aren’t we, Uncle?” “I hope so. I hope we are.”
Why bother to make music when the silence and wind are so much larger? Why light lamps when the darkness will inevitably snuff them?
