I remember a time when Saturday was Shabbat, when I would not think of lifting a pen to paper, or of switching a button to turn a computer on. I remember when that day was the day of rest, truly, because I could not worry about anything.

Part of me misses it and still feels it tugging at me, just like I miss being a part of something called friendship when I know that both of these things are lies forever misconstrued as truth.

"If you believe in no Truth," the angel asks, "what then does the Lie force itself from? What is its counterpart? A soul is the fulcrum between a delicate balance. There is no other way. Are you telling me then, Little Girl, that you are alone with the Lie, and therefore, stand in the place of Truth?"

"I don't know, Uriel," I answer. "Perhaps there is neither the Truth nor the Lie. Maybe everything is just Chance."

"A worthy speculation, but not very wise."

"What would you suggest, then?"

"Another look into yourself. There are doors yet that have not been opened. There are curtains behind which they lie wearing the guise of walls. Remember, dear, even walls are penetrable, and not all warrant a door to pass through."