Father, is that not it? that thread between every little prayer wound around my every discision awakened between the womb and my everyday life oh, how i have sought to be untouchable like You yet, even to be like You and have all You do— i am still missing You. this life is just a garment that You are wearing for a time, until undressed and unfurled You will come naked upon this world like a limp rag, spineless on the floor not even able to ask for the life it’s been given not even able to breath without the body of God in it. and every threat will be silent before its quiet tapestry for all things that have been, are (and ever will be) are rolled in a a waste basket and washed in blood and timelessness. for the world, the mysteries even untold things, must be wrapped within Your presence or truly cease to be. (and my little sins my quiet things they are Yours and You are breathing).