I wondered if all of us churchgoers were just exhausted by grief. For the dying priest and us, I thought, “God” always refused to become glorious, instead stubbornly remaining plain, a headache, a sorrowful knot of language.
I began to think that melancholy was a dialect that only some people knew-or could even hear-and in my conversations, I sought these people out.
If beauty is only skin deep, look really, really hard.