There is nothing left in the church, save the walls and the toilets. There are no bells in the belfry, which does leave space for an Ink Monk. And it is well lit by the sky.
There are no pews. No notes or photographs tucked into the walls or the floors. There is no awlter, or music — yet.
I’ll let you know what I find some Sunday — usually reserved for flea markets.
I am lamenting a music collection I gave away, lovingly accumulated from music gathered over years and travels, and searches, and trades, and collection purchases. Without the objects, I’d forgotten the music, but the silence here opened up a space that had closed up — and a little, I can hear the ghosts.
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