The Fall of Babel (The Books of Babel #4)

by Josiah Bancroft

We painted cavern walls to own the shadows with our palms. We carved the ground with county lines to legislate our qualms. We drew on heaven human shapes to stake the cosmic plot. Man would write upon his soul if pen could reach the spot.

Something seemed to crack open inside of him, and behind that barrier, which he’d not known was there, he discovered an emptiness that seemed to cry out for exploration, an absence that wanted to be filled. It was like discovering a new floor within a house he’d lived in all his life.

Anger that survives until morning is either righteous or insidious. Either way, it must be dealt with.