Seated on the second floor balcony, looking down at the shattered pews, down at the little curling stairs of the vestibule, down at the negative space once filled by a stripped down effigy, down at the ancient wooden banister, down at the floors torn open to the dirt below, down at your half-cracked hands. Behind you, a gentle slope up. A circle of wood on the floor, mirroring the bare metal circle hanging from the vaulted ceiling above. Mottled light through tall windows ahead and beside. You stood in that circle with a girl like a worm. Pathetic and whimpering, alone after dark. Romantic. A bomb hit this place. It was a girl.