somehow

last night a group of rain-soaked pilgrims gathered. with hushed tones and downcast eyes we discussed malignant sex and consequences intended and not. with brutal honesty we confessed that both as a band and as individuals we are fucked up. death has danced before our hastily averted eyes. intonations of malice have filled whispers that we chose not to hear. we have sinned by what we have said and, more often, by what we have left unsaid. everything about the gathering bespoke desperation.

then, unexpectedly, the faint scent of the gospel drifted into our midst, minor keys of hope began to be played and rumors of healing were whispered. it was only then that we began to realize that in this context of desperation, wherein sin seems so vivacious, seductive and liberating, we need to stake our lives upon identifying this faint scent, moving in rhythm to these minor keys and, somehow, believing the rumors to be true.