Famous Blue Raincoat is playing in the confessional. The priest coughs and I’m suddenly anchored to his presence. The music in my head is a counterpoint to the sins of my past. There is a terrible sense to the shoplifting of a small item or to that of a premeditated murder. The margin is razor-thin. The wood creaks energetically as I kneel, as if it finally had something to say. The smell is an odd concoction of oranges, death, sunlight, and the pages of Montaigne. I make some note in my brain about flesh and spirit and then regret the media on offer. Have you, father, spent nights on the Paris floor with Eric Arthur Blair? Maybe Henry Lawson was a drunk and a terrible person, Rimbaud too. Who knows. Mountains can be reduced to rubble with kitchen spoons, I guess. We shall see. And anything, of course, is possible. Look, if I have one confession it is this: I have less recourse to the romantic now. How sadly I lay that on the altar. But so much less sadly than had I not given life to children. That most ancient of connections. The deeping heart abyss. Next track, please.