Today, they were burning books. These were the last books on Earth, found in the house on the outskirts of the city. They were creating and, at the same time, listening to the Symphony of Fire, in which every note was a burned paper with empty words, written once by someone.
Does it really matter?
Does it really matter what was inside these books when outside, there is so much fun glancing at dancing flames destroying a relic of the past? For them, it was more important to find every hidden book, throw down imaginary idols from their pedestals, tear apart books with ...