When I passed by a woman talking to herself on the sidewalk, she asked me if I witnessed Christ’s ascent. I told her I didn’t, but knew a scent worn by a woman who made me levitate in bed. At night, I think about ungodly activities and divine love, and how the two can mix without contradicting the other. Take this bed, for instance. If you had answered my call and met me underneath the white linen, I would have made love to you in two ways: physically and psychically. I have no idea how many babies were conceived on the uneven springs of hotel mattresses. They are probably older now, possibly running for office or running from the police. Out on the streets, I can’t seem to find salvation, even though the woman on the sidewalk tried her best to save me from myself. When I lie in an empty bed thinking about a heaven that could have been possible, my false memory of you as a deity reminds me that my mortal frailties will lead to martyrdom.