When the end of the world came we collected the works of the transgressors, we built a raging bone-fire of righteousness that burnt for days. The ill deeds of the authors gave the flames a blue tinge like a gas burner on full, we cast stones with abandon , the compasses spun like roulette wheels. What use is art to the apocalypse we chanted, what use is beauty to the burning? and then once the world had ended we had nothing to read.