"Everything is a sin if you try hard enough," Hal remarks softly, but there is no meekness in his words. His voice is the quiet, even tempo of someone who can use words as dangerously as any weapon, though he has chosen to sheath them. "I think that's what I find so particularly interesting about Dante's piece. He condemns so many to hell for such small transgressions. Perhaps we all belong there, working to ascend the ranks," he notes, fingers twitching for the books again.

In lieu of them, however, he merely rubs his thumb along the engraved dots upon the domino in his pocket. "The books are arranged by whatever I choose. It's a routine, one to calm the mind and bring about zen." He doesn't feel inclined to mention that the calm is necessary so that he doesn't eat anyone.

Keeping away from reflective surfaces, now, Hal moves to the bookcase's edge, to start over again, this time by height.