He knew how to meditate. He could lose himself to his mind. The years of learning by prayer served him well in the bar. I could no more ask him why he had become a priest than he could tell me he had become a priest because. I couldn’t ask him anything. I made him a character. I wrote that he had been forced out of the priesthood for believing in occult and pagan practices. The truth, I do not know. Maybe he stole from the plate. Maybe he insulted someone. The notebook he wrote in was leather bound. He used a pencil and not a pen. He wore glasses. Was prematurely gray. His mother was a widow. His sisters had big hips. At one time he had believed in God and perhaps still did. I was moving away. I was getting as far away as I could stand to go. I would never see him again. And he would die. I knew nothing about him. I knew everything.