How well can you suffer? When your old wounds resurface like long-buried mortars; when your eyes feel clouded with fiberglass; when the pinch of the moment meets the rub of the world, when will you cry— Enough! I relent! I yield!
And even if—even if you succumbed to the false promise of relief, even if the angels washing the feet of St. George heard you, would your swan song not fall on deaf ears?
Yes, the votive candles warm the walls of the church with their small fires, but can that light embrace you beyond Metz?—in hell?
Remember how the shadows spun like roulette balls across the stained glass, not yet falling still, not yet enough to blot out the cathedral.
That must be how a prayer feels. It is the last gamble. The die knows the hand that casts is luckless.
Troglodyte Journals 
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