The supplies which I brought into the chapel perilous- my rationality, my empathy- were bestowed upon me by loving chance. These programs of benevolence and intelligence were the gift of devoted, beautiful parents, & they carried me through the darkest hallways, even though I had intended to discard them. And as I stand at yet another intersection of unlit corridors and look over my shoulder one last time in an attempt to remember where I've been, I feel a pang in my heart for those who have yet to come through here and who are not as well equipped as I have been. Then I acknowledge the inherent pride in my pity, sip from my chalice, and move on.
Then, in the church you and I have just finished building out of darkness and silence, you sacrifice the Tears Of The Clown. I nuzzle my cheek against your offering, and think of how happy I am to be made not of steel or marble, but skin that can feel you and absorb your chemicals.
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