Last night at the Teatro Comunale Mimi died again, while Rodolfo was looking the other way. This morning we are walking around the church of San Lorenzo and, despite my protestant disapproval of the reliquaries and gold ceiling, I am moved. My head is tingling and I want to cry. I have come here like a broken king, carrying splinters of bone and coils of hair.
The walls of the church are pale grey against the elephant grey columns, and the votive candles make yellow haloes. I light a candle and pray for those who die while no one's looking.
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