I fell asleep against the stained glass that painted the ground with colors that children only see through the lenses of kaleidoscopes; vividness that blind men only see when holding the warm hands of their lovers.
I woke up to the bells singing tunes of the eschaton and the priest muttering damnation upon the half-empty bottle of Jim Beam resting in my lap.
"Want a swig?" I asked with a stagger. "No," he replied. "Whiskey is the devil's elixir
and besides, there are plenty a bottle of Christ's blood behind the altar from which to choose."