Agnes left me five years ago. Today is Good Friday. I went to church and looked at the vestments. The one day of the year when I go to church. I stare at the vestments and hope that they’ll enter my eyes, covering them. On Good Friday, it’s as if I am possessed. I know that the vestments last longer than a day. But as far as I’m concerned, they last a day. I don’t know what they may be hiding, those magnificent, exhilarating purple vestments. I have no precise understanding of the Passion. I mean to say that I have no knowledge of the liturgy. The crucifixion is, to me, without a body. Without a soul. Without an image. I know what nails and a crown of thorns are. Ornaments, as in a dowry. But all of that means nothing more to me. I’d just like to lie down next to it all and drink the blood. Yet on that day I ­become, by grace, by total ignorance, devout. Like the ­pagans. I collect myself. I am in union with what is hidden. If it’s a matter of love, I do not love. Other than that moment. When I stand, kneel, and, if no one is watching, bow down to the ground, my forehead touching the marble.