“As it was, the hut felt just right: flimsy, isolated, almost furtive, a place to pray truly, a theft of time from a greedy world. A place where prayer still felt like what it really was, something dangerous. “Is not my Word like a fire? saith the Lord; and like a hammer that breaketh the rock in pieces?” He had drifted; you always drifted. Mike found his breath and rode it into the flame again, and memory sweltered and cracked in that soft fire, into shards of regret and bewilderment, benediction and dread: the mystery, the burning knot, the impossibility of self and world. The slipshod walls of scrap and junk sighed and settled like a hearth; the fear within him burned and burned, and he sat at the heart of the fire it fed and breathed cool air. "
from The Monk Upstairs, by Tim Farrington, HarperSanFrancisco, 2007