When the sun purges through a heavy veil of clouds, the light catches water vapor, creating a golden stream of light training from the heavens. When I was just a nugget, I used to thunk that these were the slides that angels slid down to recieve passing souls. There are many angels on their way to Finisterre this morning.

The salty musk of the ocean fills my every breath. The water is still, rippling ever so softly like cyan stained glass. Little pastel colored boats sit moored in the cape, still, sleeping.

A few hours away is Finisterre, the End of the World. I woke this morning with a stomach too unsettled to handke breakfast. I always feel like this in the morning before I fly or travel, or go to a job interview, or start a new class.

My face burns if I dwell too much on my journey, and the closeness of its end. I dont feel ready to give up those tears, so I straighten my posture, sinch my pack to my back, and walk faster.

In Santiago, Aiden Taylor invited me to attend mass with him. Indid my best to kindly decline. I did not feel god in that cathedral. It was cold, and echoed the sounds of pilgrims jabbering and struggling with camera-phones.
The crashing of the waves are my mass. The shock of icy ocean water is my baptism. The spires of seawashed rock are the spires of my cathedral. When I arrive, I will pray, and throw my bare form into the ocean.

Today, I am going to church.