Forgive me whoever for I have sinned. It's been several minutes since my last internal confession, for to retrain my biases, they must be brought out into the light, dusted off and beaten like an old rug over a Sicilian balcony, then re-dyed with natural colors of vegetables, flowers, leaves, insects, or any other thing that will seep in through all the fibers and stay stained. Beautifully. Forgive me whoever for I have sinned. It's been one second since my last internal confession, for directly upon the conclusion of the previous confession, I thought of You. I cursed You in my head. I don't know if You exist. I can't even fathom the number of times throughout human history a pious or religious or unbelieving person must have looked up at the heavens, shaken a real or symbolic fist, whether in tears, blood, or purely devastating desperation, and asked WHY. "Why me?" from a Tutsi on the run, his entire family hunted down and murdered by machete. "Why me?" from a gay Jew, hobbling by, carrying bricks on his back and smelling the smoke of burned flesh from the chimneys. "Por qué yo?" from a sobbing and frightened child, behind bars somewhere near the Rio Grande, not knowing if or when she will ever be reunited with her mother. "Why me?" with George Floyd's last breath. And on his death bed John Lewis said, "People on every continent have stood in your shoes, though decades and centuries before you." But why does this repeat? Forgive me whoever for I have sinned. Again. How could You allow these things to happen? Where are You now?