[This is expensive paper, almost like stationary. The words are written in aging brown ink, obviously inscribed with a fountain pen. The writing is stately, and flows across the page like a procession on Corpus Christi.]
God, O my God, I have sinned, and sinned greatly. In your mercy I trust with the sum of my being, for all thy ways are justice and all thy thoughts are peace.
I beg you to preserve my brother in his hour of trial, in this time of purgation which afflicts his soul both night and day. Do not suffer us sinners to lose another of your flock, this man, my dear friend, your child bought in blood. Preserve him, Lord, save and exalt him.
Dear Jesus! His soul is too beautiful for you to lose! If I cannot have him saved, why would you entice me as you do? I know that you want my joy! How can I be joyful if you do not bring him to the Kingdom?
Preserve, protect, defend him for us. For all they ways are justice, and all thy thoughts are peace.
My mother will die if he fails. Oh God, my God, why do you plague your children so? Pardon and indulge this sinner's failure to understand and her wailing laments against you. I know that you spurn only to welcome home, I know that you punish only to lastingly perfect.
But my mother will die if you do not aid Oliver.
How am I so bold, to speak with certainty of what has not been? Is this not what you have taught me? Is this not why you send me to your faithful even from the early hours of day, when they begin to wear down the steps of this house where you have placed me? Why do you make me do what I do not want to do? Why can't I just be alone with you, instead of sitting quiet and still, listening to the mewling complaints of housewives who think their pain proceeds from a different cause than the children they betrayed and the wombs in which they cultivate darkness and willful emptiness and a lonely self-hood which is bought at too high and terrible a price? What do they not understand about the corrosion of blood once spilled?
And the men! The men who come, hats in their hands, smiles on their faces, lies in their hearts! Why do you preserve us... what do you want us to be, if you let us be what we want?
...enough of this. You have heard my prayer, my God. This I know.
I thank and kiss your wounds and mine. Humble this iron soul, my God. I beg you.
[There are numerous brown stains, both on the page and around the edges. These cause the paper to crackle when moved.]
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