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Description
Pristine was the word that came to mind, the perfect adjective for the perfect chapel. Pristine; pure, untouched, never cleansed, for it had never wanted cleansing. Nor would it, if the man standing in the center of the big room had his way. He turned, sending his simple black coat into a pseudo-dramatic rippling that disturbed the stillness of the air and set him immediately to stilling the fabric with his hands. Pivoting (more slowly now) a full three-hundred and sixty degrees, he smiled, the tender smile of a father keeping watch over his sleeping child.
How long he stood in that spot, taking in the absolute white of the absolutely marble walls, statues and alter, he forgot to remember. When he did remember, he found his broad brimmed hat crushed in his hand, and had no memory of when he'd taken it off. He unclenched his fingers one by one, releasing the crumpled ball of felt and letting it drop to the floor. The gentle sound it made when it met the mosaaic tile seemed to dull his soul, bringing awareness to his mind and feeling back into his limbs. He turned toward the door and stepped out into the muted daylight.
Under an overcast sky that was mostly blotted out by the looming shadows of skyscrapers, all of the peace leftover from the chapel shattered as casually as Dante's descent into Hades. Blurred automobiles sped past, all of different colors, the most prominent of which was a bright, dandilion yellow; taxi cabs, their drivers like a multitude of turbaned Virgils come to offer their guidance. However, our Dante of the black coat had navigated this particular circle of America's own personal Sheol often enough to know his way about. Disdaining the ease and convenience promised by the cabs, he walked with a graceful, leonine gait that betrayed his total lack of concern for the hour and whatever appointments awaited him (for a man bearing such a finely tailored coat must certainly have appointments), walked straight to a set of steps descending through the polished concrete verneer of frehsly washed sidewalk into the less-polished subway beneath. The smells of hot metal and stale foodstuffs, coupled with the rasping, dischordant sogns of New York's underground 'talent' (old, filthy men weilding battered bronze relics from the byone era of Swing Jazz) lent a comforting air to the half-light of E2 station. Black-coated Dante set himself down easily on a bench lining the wall, watching the train he had (as per usual) just missed depart the station, filled to bursting with tourists, commuters and worst of all, *foreign* tourists.

To Be Continued (Hopefully)

Description
Pristine was the word that came to mind, the perfect adjective for the perfect chapel. Pristine; pure, untouched, never cleansed, for it had never wanted cleansing. Nor would it, if the man standing in the center of the big room had his way. He turned, sending his simple black coat into a pseudo-dramatic rippling that disturbed the stillness of the air and set him immediately to stilling the fabric with his hands. Pivoting (more slowly now) a full three-hundred and sixty degrees, he smiled, the tender smile of a father keeping watch over his sleeping child.
How long he stood in that spot, taking in the absolute white of the absolutely marble walls, statues and alter, he forgot to remember. When he did remember, he found his broad brimmed hat crushed in his hand, and had no memory of when he'd taken it off. He unclenched his fingers one by one, releasing the crumpled ball of felt and letting it drop to the floor. The gentle sound it made when it met the mosaaic tile seemed to dull his soul, bringing awareness to his mind and feeling back into his limbs. He turned toward the door and stepped out into the muted daylight.
Under an overcast sky that was mostly blotted out by the looming shadows of skyscrapers, all of the peace leftover from the chapel shattered as casually as Dante's descent into Hades. Blurred automobiles sped past, all of different colors, the most prominent of which was a bright, dandilion yellow; taxi cabs, their drivers like a multitude of turbaned Virgils come to offer their guidance. However, our Dante of the black coat had navigated this particular circle of America's own personal Sheol often enough to know his way about. Disdaining the ease and convenience promised by the cabs, he walked with a graceful, leonine gait that betrayed his total lack of concern for the hour and whatever appointments awaited him (for a man bearing such a finely tailored coat must certainly have appointments), walked straight to a set of steps descending through the polished concrete verneer of frehsly washed sidewalk into the less-polished subway beneath. The smells of hot metal and stale foodstuffs, coupled with the rasping, dischordant sogns of New York's underground 'talent' (old, filthy men weilding battered bronze relics from the byone era of Swing Jazz) lent a comforting air to the half-light of E2 station. Black-coated Dante set himself down easily on a bench lining the wall, watching the train he had (as per usual) just missed depart the station, filled to bursting with tourists, commuters and worst of all, *foreign* tourists.

To Be Continued (Hopefully)