Sometimes I think I can expiate all my past and future sins through the aching of my bones.
People who walk across dark bridges, past saints, with dim, small lights. Clouds which move across gray skies past churches with towers darkened in the dusk. One who leans against granite railing gazing into the evening waters, His hands resting on old stones.
There are questions we could not get past if we were not set free from them by our very nature.
I passed by the brothel as though past the house of a beloved.
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