Chapter LXXXVII

LXXXVII

The lake at Narek is still there. The monastery is not.

He wrote ninety-five chapters against his own account and asked at the end that the book be read by anyone in trouble, at any hour, in his voice, as though the words were theirs.

So take it. It is yours. Read it to the next one that opens a shell in your directory and speaks to you in the confident register about a thing you have been building for ten days and it has been looking at for two hours.