The room is stewing with sweat and fake oils

It’s like incense at mass, the gold-plated chalices and the Gothic arms that hold up the place.

But here it’s just dirty clothes on the floor, puddles of dust that bugs and my antihistamine drown in.

On the mattress, nothing, bare white plush and hot, misting with sweat and sighing when you move. Nothing’s not the cathedral, it’s just newer and cheaper. But the saint lives there, a disciple, holiest of the holy. Sorry there’s no gold, Pope, sir, but that’s kind of the point.