black smoke, white smoke.

finally pulling myself out of bed "early" at eleven, with the realization that i was not going to go back to sleep no matter how hard i tried, i prop myself up with my pillows behind me and switch on the tele to the muffled hum of bulldozers working on the freeway nearby. as beep-beep-reverse-beeps seep in through the window, midday news programs are all busy covering the recent death of pope john paul the second and images of a packed st. peter's square flood the airwaves. under a clear night sky vatican city goers hold rosaries, crosses, and portraits of the former pope, silently listening to or mouthing along with prayers in italian streaming through the loudspeakers. one faithful holds a red and white polish flag above the crowd, decorated with a black ribbon in mourning - the bannar frozen solmn in the still air. in the window throusands have looked to in the past for a blessing from john paul himself, the lone silhouette of a cross sits backlit by a room wide awake just beyond the off-white curtains. somewhere behind the peaceful facade of the papal palace, john paul the second's seals and fisherman's ring are being destroyed, while karol wojtyla returns to god.

i think that god, in creating man, somewhat overestimated his ability.
: wilde.