atheist prayers & isolation hymns
These letters, locked away in an attic trunk for so many decades, are as grey and brittle as December fields. All these people are gone. I'm impressed by how good they got at being gone. I think about this while drinking beer on a broken pew in an abandoned church. And I realize that what makes this place so sacred is not sermons and false piety of all those who used to gather here, but the silence and the winter light greying the high windows long after the people have gone.