of detachment and of broken things

There is a priest. When he leaves confession he doesn’t feel release. He leaves with a stomach full of broken promises, and of broken dreams and they’re sharp as hell. Exception after exception after exception after exception we are lured further from the blood of this place.

Let me dive in.

The world is bleeding for us, and I’m sick of us never even showing up. I’m sick of us always expecting, from all the world’s strong spots, while its weak spots are screaming, crying for our eyes.
We are pushing and pushing and pushing at some kinda roof, and we don’t know how to break through. Folks, I think that’s how we’ll break through.