I feel very strongly like I sympathize with those Byzantine monks. I feel for the devotion and humility it would take to spend their lives transcribing what, to them, are sacred texts. Copying and copying, writing and writing, I love them for it. It makes me wonder if all those monks are sitting up in a special circle of Paradiso right now, transcribing parchments in perpetuity. I love to think of them like that, all of them at once and forever. Then I’m going down (up?) the rabbit hole of Dante’s Paradiso on a Sunday night when I should be taking melatonin, the structure of it, it’s a whole other kind of planetary science. I could get lost in this stuff, and I do, of course the monks' time wouldn’t be like that 24/7. They could go for walks in a garden, sip green tea, and use k-beauty facemasks, in threesomes or pairs. Sometimes little birds sit on their shoulders and sing sweet melodies in their ears, and their whole life is a singing, I can see them smiling in the sphere of Saturn with other contemplative types.
