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my cloth are the title to tell you that the whole of my spirit is going to descend upon you, no matter how closed your mouths shall distant be. You are like unsaintly lambs feathering away with the wool they have shorn from you. I see your lost faces behind fences as you bend your heads coveningly away from me. For him there was no truth, and yet he could say it in his sermons, my children absolutely never tell a lie. His destiny was in his ability to shatter time. In his daily life this momement of rising into the depths of the human divine seemed consistant in its expansion, to which the outside world recoiled. The real sacrament, that came directly from the form of his soul, was his school, that he bestowed upon all the children that could reach him. He would walk off the alter with his alter boys trailing him, and the people would rise and walk in throngs from the church. Now a mumble of voices spread across the church as they walked between pillars that had shaken and beneath the gothic classacisum painted on the church ceiling, that vibrated out over their conversation, as in the sounds of bells. A roar of footsteps had been heard moments earlier coming up the stairs from the lower church, where Mass was also held. Mass was technically over after communion, and some would always begain to leave at that point. But not when Papa Joe was saying Mass, and if they did, he would yell from the alter, where do you think you're going. And they wouldn't quite know, and then they would return to their seats like good little grownups. I wonder if he could hear the wimper of their thoughts, as he walked away in the distance on his broken shoes? He almost seemed to fear the candle in his hand, he held before his face for them. Did he think of deficating through his mouth off the path of disbelief. He could carry his voice into the clouds, nor strangle a pen until the dawn cut through his eyes, like the image of a tired man needing a glass of