Dear Anonymous,
Sunday morning sermon with an almost empty bottle. Tears and laughter and a manic slide between the two. Grateful thanks and deep hurts. A hurt clanging like a broken muffler down cobblestone embedded in the monologue. A preaching of love and pain and anger and woundedness. But what's that? My projection.
He raises his bottle. I raise my coffee cup and we cheer beauty and despair, that odd couple we hang with.