Think of all the splendid possibilities open to you, then utter a silent prayer. Who, thought the theologian, this person is who prays is perhaps the key to understanding our existence, that spark within, as Meister Eckhart said, had in all probity to be who one was.
Theologician, he thought, caught in the knot of it: "is who prays is," indeed. Reaching for his coffee cup he noticed that the pen had leaked across the flank of his second finger, a black patch like an island on a Portugese map. "In all probity" would be something one would have to emend before giving the homily but there was a certain beauty to it, what someone once had said of Freudian slips i.e., that they provide a patching bay to the unconscious.
The image of cables behind the stacked apparatus: tuner, CD player, DVD, tape, amplifier.
The creator less an amplifier than a tuner. Trite.
On the bank of video monitors from the surveillance cameras he could see as the stranger entered the vestibule, paused to light a votive candle, examined the ivory stations of the cross, humming lowly, Happy Birthday when the theologian tuned it in.
Awaiting the first turn we perhaps imagine the garden a knotted awareness looping in on itself, race cars like sunflowers receding ( a pun here?) in unbearable sunlight and noise.