Bokelskere.no

"You hate him a lot?" Blackie asked.
Of course I don't hate him," T said. "There'd be no fun if I hated him." The last burning note illuminated his brooding face.
"All this hate and love," he said, "it's soft, it's hooey. There's only things, Blackie," and he looked round the room crowded with the unfamiliar shadows of half things, broken things, former things.

Streaks of light came in through the closed shutters where they worked with the seriousness of creators - and destruction after all is a form of creation. A kind of imagination had seen this house as it now become.