Soul he said. Soul as the prison of the body. Soul I asked? What about the ones who don바카라™t believe? In soul. Or God. Or religion. The ones that understand the body for what it is. Accept its one-way journey towards the inevitable. The body as decay. Gradual ruin. Eventual crumbling. We all know this. Or those that think the 바카라˜inner core바카라™, or what I presume is a 바카라˜substitute바카라™ for the notion of 바카라˜soul바카라™, is actually just an ever changing, evolving, fermenting mass of literature that grows. And grows. And knows freedom. And fear. And emotion. And love. And death. And every kind of existential angst that any soul worth its weight in gold would know! What about me? I asked. Or you for that matter. We who write and read and write and continue to both read and write while our bodies grow old and tired. But the mind. The mind remains in a state of excitement. Constantly radiant. Its brilliance grows with every new thought. What if we substitute 바카라˜literature바카라™ for 바카라˜soul바카라™ in your proud statement so that it now reads 바카라˜Literature as the prison of the body바카라™. The thing is that this doesn바카라™t hold. Literature cannot be a space that restricts movement. Or freedom. At least it shouldn바카라™t be. It is meant to be a liberating presence. Like its close companion. The dark. For me the dark is important. The dark as a substitute for soul? Maybe. Darkness is essential for literature of meaning to grow and take root.