Sometimes, I want to punish you.  I know where it comes from.  This bread, this sacrament.  What it is to be broken and break another for a representation of ones' movement past the other.  That is all it is when I stand back and stare at it a long time.
  All it is is my hate that rests in the palms of my hands.  The hate I had for years drawn up and thrown away or put on myself, I can't punish you with it.  It would only be, to me one day, to have punished you with the same animus you had me.  The inequity.  And where?  Where would I be?
  It's nearly a year.  I've come down toward many terrible feelings only to find myself here.  Only here where I still struggle to learn and reach over the hill.  How do you outlive such things and still remain?  I want to know.  Where?  What is closure for this thing?

( painting by Edvard Munch )