I will think on the Lord with every breath in. With every breath out, I will think on my soul.
He could see his soul, a small glass shape in a room of pure white. As he prayed, with every exhalation, he could see the glass getting clearer, the smudges of smoke becoming fainter, less like dirty, greasy fingerprints of sin.
He wanted to stay, to watch his own painful purification, but his vision began to brown out around the edges. He was going to have to get up, eat, and work, small things to keep marking the time until he could be raised to heaven.
He scrubbed himself clean under a shower of cold needles, ate oats with canned peaches, and finished tying his tie between bites. The window over the sink only showed clouds and bushes shaking in the breeze, so he pulled on an overcoat after finishing the dishes.
And then as he picked up his keys, he felt them hot in his hand, could see the diamond glitter of the last drop of water clinging to the faucet, could taste the sweetness of the last syrupy slice of peach clinging to his tongue.
He knew everything. He didn't need to close his eyes to see the fragile, smoky glass of his soul.
He was smiling when it shattered.