A man sits naked in the dark. His fetal posture rests him somewhat. The darkness calms as he rests his head on his propped forearm. In the back of his mind he wonders if his spirit is slowly seeping through his skin, dissolving into the atmosphere while sitting and praying alone in the closet. His own breathing lulls him into a soft conversation, a relished love exchange and as he breathes he thinks how it sounds oddly like another's breath. He rests in the rhythm. Deep reservoirs burst within him when more of his soul empties and he cries, though the rhythm doesn't change. Sweet release, he thinks.
"Render me fit...", he inhales, "...to receive more of Thy grace", he exhales. The breaths become the prayer when he runs out of his words.
