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The moments immediately before you make a mistake have a way of lingering, I think. It’s as if the mind archives the last chance you had to turn the right way before you went the wrong way, imprinting that memory in a hope that you won’t make the same mistake the next time around.
Blood smeared his forehead like an Ash Wednesday blessing, crossed the bridge of his nose, reddened his lips, dotted the cleft in his chin.
Simple faith is the purest act of love, I think. It’s also a hell of an easy way to get yourself in trouble.
The haunting power of any ghost relies not on entrances into our world but on almighty absences from it.
