He started down the road with collected visions of the city in tow. Their words still rang in his ears, so pitched with anger and frustration. I think their garden is wilting he found himself thinking. The stagnant traffic roiled silently with accusations against all the other grouped travelers walling each other in. On a deck hanging from a nearby apartment, a defeated-looking man shouted impotently at a group of loitering teenagers below. They believe only in the failure of their neighbors he almost said aloud this time.
When toward the outer edge of the city the roads finally opened up, he began to pass row upon row of well-kept houses all staring at him importantly. No one ever dared to question the manor, yet all buildings lie: with civilized facades, groomed acres, but closed doors. The most beautiful opportunities are inviting he believed though often their grounds are thorny.
He turned onto a street lined with strip malls. In one, a rundown mechanics shop boasted a twelve-foot-tall sign that read JESUS LOVES YOU. Would Christ have been a mechanic? Would the Son of God have believed in machines? One who is inscribed so majestically in books must only believe in words. Theirs is a simple power. He spoke next aloud as if he needed to hear how these last thoughts upon exiting resonated back within him: “I know what my beliefs are; however, I don’t know what to call them. I have never seen their face.”