That sound, rhythmic and stubborn as an inquisitor's interrogation, has long become my inner metronomy who beat the breakthrough rather than prayer. Drop. Silence. Drop. The washroom tap at the end of the corridor, broken maybe from spring, was bitching the nail in the coffin of infinity over the night, to the ocean donated by God, which the brothers were so persevering to fit into a bucket full of reproaches and dogma. They thought they would retain heat while closing the windows, but in the rooms only the smell of mold and unfulfilled prayers was accumulated.

Their anger rising from the door was not holy. It was just masonry mortar, promptly lubricated on the walls of the cracks that they themselves enclosed themselves. I heard them whispering - excessive, weakness, devil's temptation. Each word is a stone for the construction of the cathedral, but to throw someone who dared to lift his eyes and see that the sky is not limited to stained glass frames. For me, the flower is not their verdict, but the existential fatigue born of the realization that they are so furiously defending their prison walls, as if it were the greatest value.

The door closed. However, it was not her real wall. The real wall was fear, and the thought, now on the other side of it, timidly explored the new, boundless space, as if for the first time a bird that had out of cage for the first time.

Behind the door - the voices of the brothers.
Heavy, reproach.
Let.
I go out.

At the stop, under the overwhelming, indifferent sky, three more souls awaited from the wind. No one looked at me. No one cared about the monastery I left or the infinity I discovered. The bus was approaching slowly, lazy, and I realized that my big escape was just buying a ticket. Ticket to nowhere, which is everywhere.