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But then, who would ever care about any of it, no one cares about light and what it does to the soul, not here in this city behind God’s back.
He’s dreaming, Osman whispered. So am I, Pinto said.
Who was it that made the house for birds, who fed them? Who taught the baby storks to open their beaks for a frog? Who singled out the poor weasel? Who taught man to open his mouth and speak? Who put the chatter of voices into Pinto’s head, and everywhere outside it, and why do the voices and the words never stop? You cannot fathom my rules.
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