The walls are cracked and water runs upon them in thin threads without

sound, black and glistening as blood. We stole the candle from the

larder of the Home of the Street Sweepers. We shall be sentenced to ten

years in the Palace of Corrective Detention if it be discovered. But

this matters not. It matters only that the light is precious and we

should not waste it to write when we need it for that work which is our

crime. Nothing matters save the work, our secret, our evil, our precious

work. Still, we must also write, for--may the Council have mercy upon

us!--we wish to speak for once to no ears but our own.