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Woke up and drove to Montreal this morning. Downtown Montreal, where I was sort of hoping to at least spot a few of my favorite hobos.

I'm making this sound too happy. I'm really not happy right now. I'm not feeling well. I'll just cut straight to where I go to church.

Yeah, I went to church. It was cold outside and I don't have a good jacket so I was shaking shaking shaking (though it might not have been because of the cold) until I decided to slip in. You know, for old times sake. Might as well remember the bad shit somewhere warm, I figure. I stepped in and it was mostly empty; there was a priest and an old man at one of the front left pews. Kneeling.

If there's one thing I've learned is to never kneel with your head bent over, 'cause you never know who's going to take a swing at you while you're not looking.

There's something slightly disturbing about churches, kneeling man omitted. I don't know if it's the way the roundness of the arched ceiling contrasts with the hard, wooden angles of the benches, or if it's the multi-color tint windows, or if it's the elevated platform atop which sits something that could easily make for a good counter or operating table, or if it's the way sounds play off the walls, echoing and bouncing off one another. Maybe it's the way I remember sitting there when I was little. Or the way portraits of a dying man ornate the wall, tracing a path all the way up to a towering cross on which the final facial expression of a past rebel was intricately engraved, and attached to a mutilated body as a sign of heroism and good example. A path of death leading to a symbol that means "He rebelled and died so that you can now kneel and obey."

I sat down in the middle. Perfect center, so that all this mutilation and death and forgiveness rotated around me like the Earth around the indifferent, treaturous sun.

Flash back to being five years old, sitting in this same exact spot a few miles away and reciting bible passages at the same time as the priest. Sitting at this same exact spot a few miles away with a nice suit and hair as perfect as you could expect hair to be on a five year old. Sitting there thinking; Being here makes me good. Sitting there thinking; Dad, tell me I'm being good right now. Thinking; Dad, give me approval.

Flash back to me about twelve hours ago. Shaking shaking shaking because it's cold outside, or maybe not. Kneeling without bending my head down and thinking; Father, hear me out. Dad, hear me out. Father, give me strength enough to pull through. Father, show me where to go. Dad, hold my hand and don't let go.

Fast forward to me right this second. Melissa is sick and sleeping and I'm shaking shaking shaking and it's not the cold. I can't stop my eyes from watering all the way down to my tear-stained jeans. And right now... Right now I feel pretty damn fucked.