It started with notes found on a walk to the metro, inky letters on paper and rock.

Hate God. Fuck God.

More followed, for months, along with dreams about the person behind them,
and I couldn’t help but wonder about their state-—a mental illness or crisis of faith
(why not both?).

I am not religious but one might call me spiritual. Too disorganized for something
singularly set.

I left it for a few months, nothing seemed to change. An occasional scribble.
Mostly the notes stopped, but my dreams never did.

A strange worry rooted in my throat. 

More months later I went on another walk and noticed the censoring. The chalky opposition,
in color and affect. Love God.

Had they rediscovered their faith? No, more likely someone else voiced
opposition, starting a conversation of only four distinct words.

They tar each other’s word black and reassert themselves over and again.
Rebuke each other with sentences of granite grammar. Size. Position. Repetition.
Erasure.

The conversation continues—I see its highlights on my walks and,
as it does, I can’t tell whether I’m a witness or a spectator.