The light came upon him unexpectedly. He stopped painting and remembered he should have gone to confession. The light somehow commanded him to speak so with a grimace at the wall with its tired surface still exposed, he began. Gesticulating, tired arms outstretched, he tried to explain. His heart ached with the honesty that poured from him. Tears fell although they had no right to after all this time passed. The light didn't change, there was no flicker, no shift in the shadows cast, no choir, no incense. Perhaps it was all too late. He went back to the wall and continued painting.