The contemplation of Christ’s broken body and shed blood does draw us in towards ourselves, then, but not in Kantian contemplation of the moral law within.

More of the silent apartment, the enormous window, the light that came and went. Sometimes at night I would cry and say simple phrases like “is this it? Is this what’s left?” Then I read something in the Brothers Karamazov.

I am from outer space and YOU cannot know ME! Give me money or I will hurt your ears!