This; a walk in which a sea wind would thrive and drop as low as deserts bare rock, where all the houses stand thirty steps back. A road that, to my eye, would lead to the sun were it not to rise, a gentle slope, to a cliff face high church. And walking this road, past people that never tired of looking through windows. I carried with me contrition fastened to my belt, ready to offer the priest. And the priest when I saw him, smiled and held me but like a trophy and not a brother. Next time fastened to my belt will be a grenade.