It is still that part of the morning before the mist does rise, in the time of ocher and amber, and blue light that glows at the edges of things. Golden comes the sun through the ground-clouds like a Bible picture where the Lord seeks to show himself at last to the prophet, to the people, who cannot see, who will not see. But he sees. The boy does. Where the sunlight meets this earth. Where the mist rises and falls back upon itself. Where those fine droplets of water are blue in the transition, the boy sees and knows more than he should about these simple proofs of lives lived and lives lost, and lives loved, and signs that come to warn and comfort the miserable and the damned. The doomed creatures that we are, that weíve become. And then thereís the way he sees himself. Not like the others see him. He has hope yet for himself and for our kind in general, and itís not right what some say, heís not unholy and we are not doomed. He knows this as pure truth. His faith in all that is good and right is strong. Though it does waver.