At the back door of a church on Sunday. In an alley off of St. Andrews, again. Beating off the cold stink he is waiting. For father to find him a hot viand & coat. Wait son, do not yet close thy eyes. Silently, he eats with both hands faster then it takes the priest to swallow along with him. The staticy air gets more tolerable as both decide to loosen up the other's collar Wait son, do not yet close thy eyes. Underneath a full moon, but still dusking. He notices that brother and sister are sharing the same sky. Just as the fire drowns down into a dark blue expanse of rippless heart-ache. Wait son, do not yet close thy eyes. Hungry again, but too exhausted to search any further then the edge of a playground. Near the beach and his Father's Mission Bells sing to him, tonight he shall have sleep. Now son, you may close your own eyes.