"The monks told me a lot about what to destroy," he went on after a while. "They question they never answered, though, was this: when you scrub it all out, the fear and hope, the anger and despair, all the thousands habits of thought - what's left?"
Triste didn't respond. The chorus behind them rose and fell, rose and fell like the wind. When he finally looked over at her, she was watching him. Her words, when she spoke, were thin as the wind.
"Why does there need to be somethings left?"