There is a small chapel on Route 30 outside of Atlantic City, NJ. I haven’t come across anything like it. If there was a church that I could feel at home in it would be this one, faintly smelling of exhaust fumes, transient, empty. 

You borrow a flame from another candle to light your own. The row of candles burn the same, look the same. When you think about it, are the same.

People leave messages in the guestbook. One read: Dear God, Help me with my addiction and be a better man.

It doesn’t matter much to me whether God is imaginary or not. The human imagination is the most powerful and mysterious force in the universe.