Our hands mingled awkwardly somewhere between prayer and the profane, faces redder than communal wine. In the foreground of your humorous comics, Spongebob depicted as our lord and savior in the margins of Job, I felt like a sheep who rejected the shepherd – and certainly was not looking for him to begin with. We danced with wolves in their caves, scooters and bicycles scraping the church lot of serenity.
Your name is as archaic as sacrament. The wolves have shed into men. Still, I wonder if my face is as inseparable from the holy arches as yours is to me.