“Yet you distrust writing poems....”
“—bad poems.”
“Bad because you distrust doing anything for fun?”
“You know, I think you’re right!”
He smiled like a child, pleased but a bit scared when he finds true what he had sought in make-believe. His brow wrinkled. He turned away from the brass glare of the light.
“That light is horrid,” she said.
“—all substitutes for the sun,” he said.
“That is so.”
“Yet what a wonder what a glory,” his body stiffened, “that we should have a substitute at all!”
“Why glory, Samson Brenner, if the substitute is false?... Wait.”