“It is impossible to spend the coming day in faith if we do not think of it as the last day of our life.” ~ St John Climacus I. A small blob of light in the distance bounces delicately back and forth. It comes slowly into focus, as though you’re just coming to after having passed out: a single sideways candle flame named fiat lux. You sit up and it’s now flickering up and down, marking the path of invisible air currents in the darkness. No smelling salts, just the acrid odor of hide glue gone bad from somewhere in the squalid apartment. There is almost no light: just the candle, a red flashing digital 12:00 in the corner and cracks of sunlight peering through drawn drapes. It’s cold enough to faintly see your breath. He’s still hunched over his workbench, the sole area fully benefiting from the light of the candle. You see some discarded egg shells on the floor and on the bench. His brush slowly glides over the smooth white gessoed surface of the thick mahogany panel, leaving a streak of red terra cotta in its wake, a small sable flagellum threshing blood from solid light. You can see the
