A crowd of grey clothing, the smell of the old bench wood, the dust raining down through the stained light from the tall windows high above the people. A few look back at me, their faces blank, hopeless. He steps forward slowly, carefully, as if entering a city of the dead; it’s always been that to him anyways, he has always been in the middle of that city. And the old man on the platform at the end of the dead army, he is the leader, he is the one who keeps them dead.
He keeps his head straight, hoping everyone notices the wrinkles. The black robe which looked as if it belonged to a cult leader hangs stupidly over his shoulders and down his long, slender frame. When the old man walks in he is willing him to notice the wrinkles, the poorly taken care of sacred robe. When it comes to his small part in the charade, he walks to the alter, almost comically swinging his legs on the robe as he walks forward, nearly kicking a sleeping old women on the outside of a middle pew who looked as if she were already dead. He can see the old man watching out of the corner of his eye, his face more grave than usual. A small smile creeps to his lips. He lives for that feeling.

All of that was behind him now. Everyone had forgotten about his leaving. And he, under the dark, star filled skies, wondered why he had left. He imagined a cathedral in the sky made of stars, where God resided and simply and in a practical way directed the matters of life. He thought of what he had called the dead city, the sea of grey faces looking up to a platform. It all seemed so strange, like it had barely happened, or had happened differently. They were stuck there. He had gotten out of the trap and its effects were just now wearing off. The old, rigid ways of thought left the passages of his mind, and he felt a continually decreasing anxiety with there leaving. It could be compared to two ships coming close to each other, and he, standing on the gangplank of one, steps onto the gangplank of the other. The boat he has entered stays put though, under the stars, watching for something. He tried to think of it really, in a deep way. He had come to and from the idea, but hadn’t settled upon it. And now, with his mind easing towards sleep, he wished to make some progress in his understanding of the thing. He had left because he had nothing else to do. It sounded strange or childish; yes, it sounded very childish. But that is part of why he left as well, to stop from being childish. If he had not left he would have been stuck; not able to except their idea because he had something to prove, and unable to reject them because he had no other idea about life.
He looks to the road, to Dingle. 'Well, it doesn't matter now.' I am here now and things will go the way they're going. I will go to Dingle and beyond that, well beyond that we'll see.' He looks at all the specific formation of stars. It amazed him, how we look at these incredible things for only moments at a time and then turn right back to our own worlds, the worlds dictated mostly by social conditioning. We will die and they will still be here doing what they're supposed to do: exist.
He looks back towards Dingle. 'And someday, we all will die.'