Could I, for a minute, shed the wrinkled brow? Wouldn’t I see the beauty.  Would I see this field as I saw the ones back home—when legs were free from injury and the wind carried me across the field, before the great weight of a whimsical role sat upon my shoulders—before I was so angry at the world. Could I look at you, and him, without thoughts of the world hacking at me from below. Could I shed myself, and laugh as freely as you. Could it be so beautiful? Would I love the sun once more. 

Heavy fog danced across the headlights. I laughed into the cold, my eyes sharp, my grin swallowing sea air on the dark highway.  I thought back to nights riding, and breathed deep.  The world was dark blue, and the moon left every hill of the coastline a little lighter than the night.  The fleeting shapes danced by.  A sharp curve stirred you from your sleep.

You yelled through the window, “Why didn’t you defrost!” I called back, “No time to figure it out, I got it!” You flipped the switch, and pulled me back into the cockpit. “Why –"

 Your eyes scolded me.  I laughed. We made it after all.

The sweaty man slid into confession and rushed through the four points. “Forgive me father, for I killed the priest in Kells.”

The sinner fidgeted in his seat, one eye large and prying, “Father? Are you there?”

A voice from behind the screen came haltingly, “You say,” his lips smacked as he moistened them,  “you killed the priest in Kells?”

“Most violently, father.”

Only further fidgeting. The man narrowed his eyes to peer through the screen.

“Father?”

The priests voice shook, “that man, he was my brother.”

The priest’s eyes made out the yellow grin of the man across from him.  He watched as the wiry lips formed two words.

“I--know.”

The gunshot that entered the chest of the grieving priest rang throughout the cathedral and played off the organ’s pipes.  Out through the heavy doors danced the sweaty sinner, calling on their God to strike him down; daring fate, and faith, and all that they believed holy to halt his march.

A great fire burned behind the grounds where people would meet, often drunk, to exchange philosophy on the world they knew so well so young.  Rain fell most days, and a cold from the coast tore through his spine on the walks between classes.  A step inside the high ceilings, and his head would emerge from his wool coat, a smile to greet his fellow revolutionaries.  They—who knew so much, sipping coffee and discussing projects that should change the world—each young man with his own gait, each stance there as if to avow hidden talent.  They were so sure of their importance in the world—this world they knew so well, so young.