Every photo has a story:
These doors open up accompanied by an orchestra of only unnerving cracking noise.
They inexplicably begin to unseal, ever so slowly, before even the wish to knock.
The coat of arms represents the long forgotten past, present, and future.
The pious figures keep you in check, ensuring that no swearing, slouching, nose-picking, chewing, or any of those other things school principals allow only in their nightmares, take place.
Wondering if confession is mandatory before entering.
Wondering if I would be let in if that confession were actually true.
Everything that happened before happened to that building and in my life.
Everything that happened before, to that building and in my life, takes center stage.
“Is this the way to heaven?” Nobody answers, not even the wind.
“Hell? Is this hell?” Nobody answers that wasted question either.
And I feel like I don’t need absolutely anything at all.
Only to know this place and what it is.
