The reader of books is shamed along the way. The deeper reader of books is killed. Ah, but the deepest reader of books is secretly liberated and pulls manna from the summer disease that fills the hallways of the palace. And he enters the hovel where the spearmen enter, suddenly excited. They forget the guest and quickly run outside where a crude stage is being erected. He listens to the hurried conversations trying to find out what the stage is going to contain. This, he figures, is not a town that erects and destroys stages casually. No, something genuine is occurring. Something is flowing through the area indicating that the four known quarters of the gateless city extend, out, to a world.

Oh reader of books, remove the finger from your delicate orifice! Would that the maker of words and books do so, as an act of love, rather than one of hate and necessity. Oh, reader of books, you can not see the faces of those who have created your slight diversion. The faces remember the alleys of youth and when they read about the ruins of Rome. The faces arm themselves when the world begins to burn. The faces lie to tell the truth. The faces enter realms that destroy sensibility.

Ah, there are realms of books. They are made of books, oh reader of books. The world does not grovel at their feet or turn its mighty head when they pronounce their next agenda. Rivers of mud stop the advance of migratory people. Their flag is stolen from them and they panic. They consult the reader of books who tells them their cause is lost.

"What do I have to do with people I gave up on many years ago?