I despise the debauched priest who destroyed something I conceived as perfect. When once words and actions were the words and the will of God, now words are scattered among papers and kept neatly within books that dance around meanings I desperately crave. I hate him because before I was content. Now I must keep searching for meaning I hope I find, but am not convinced I ever will. If this green leaf can provide me with some relief for my aching brain, some transferal to happy moments spent immersed in the smell of frankincense, I'll smoke it until it fills my mind. Yet, my soul remains empty and I'm dizzy digging in ashes.