A dormitory and a single bed, two chairs and a corner window. Moments in solitude, time to reflect. In the distance, the low hills.

Twenty-three weeks until the harvest, and the priesthood. Ploughing the fields, working the mill, the school of the soul. In between scriptures, he stacked bails and scrubbed walls in the grain depository. Dirty fingernails worked on him below a filthy ceiling. On his desk, a box of old notes from the chapel vaults.

And his thoughts, always aware, his conflict, and the demons in his mind, a young boy, his youth, stolen away swiftly by the desires of his priest.

the rusting metal bar,
against the back of the chair,
will be over soon.