It was 4:57 on the morning of August 16th, 2011 when my mother called through my door that the glory of God was coming. She said it in her sweet suggestive voice of my older years as opposed to her all-out admonishing voice of my younger years, so I knew not how to heed her - especially since it was still pitch-black outside. And yet as I sauntered downstairs into the kitchen, from the easternmost window there came a soft, yet resounding Latin chorus accompanied by a soft sunrise with midday intensity.
The chorus grew louder and louder and yet more peaceful until I awoke at 3:57 on the morning of August 16th, 2011, convicted to the core, bemused as a butt-ass black boy in the garden of a white man's Eden. God-damned knowledge wrestled with mind, body, and soul for ten minutes as I remained immobilized and prostrate on my bed. To be or to not be? The immortal question. The eternal split. My sinuses flared softly and I cried behind my eyes. I cried behind my eyes. I cried behind my eyes.
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