On my walk home from work at night, I pass it. I look into the church and see lights on inside and wonder who is up so late working on research or simply passing the time behind unknown walls. I wish to pass through the iron gates like a phantom in the night and idle as the stars die in my wake; never moving, never ceasing. Insomniacal practice. Haunting those who dare to grow their mind when it should be maintenancing in slumber. I look on with envy as the wisps remind me the gates are there for a reason, and my flesh is not permeable.
The towering architecture only looms over me to press it in.
I pass it and think of what I could have been.
