Guards at the citadel refused to allow me to visit John.
Written requests go unanswered.
Peter, James and Matthew are no luckier than I.
ÿ
A finch is watching me as I write under the olives.
Rain is threatening.
Conception. Birth. Death. Each is a mystery.
In my father’s house I grew up among mysteries. I heard them talked, argued over, curtly dismissed. I have resented the unknowns, yet to plumb them is still beyond me. Each child is a mystery. The temple is a mystery. The shell that I pick up on the beach has its mystery. Some say I am a man of mysteries. Does the turtle have its mysteries?
ÿ
Kislev 5