An honest man who believed

Greenridge Cemetery is beautiful. I just spent an hour in a wander; it will be my place of choice for dark and quiet thoughts, I think, a replacement for Oberlin's old reservoir. It's big enough to get lost in, painfully romantic, old enough to obliterate the world—most of the monuments are Civil War-era, and many of them tower above me, twenty feet or more. A crooked spine of hills runs through it, with the grandest obelisks and the fenced-in tombs along its crest; the hills allow moments of breath-catching as new sights appear suddenly from behind them. Much of the marble is age-blackened, the cross-shaped sarcophagi and the grim kneeling angels. I saw one Celtic cross, eight feet tall, every inch engraved with knotwork, and it stopped my feet. I was alone, alone, alone, but for squirrels and ravens.

I need to return with my camera. With someone to kiss.