Junkyard Quote Four Week Four

I'm standing in Assisi, the same scene as in Gubbio. One cobblestone street up to the church, see the throngs of people from every end of the Catholic world, and not. One cobblestone street down to the restaurants, the shops all saying SOUVENIR in intricate, archaic fonts, yet different colors. The only thing that differentiates these places. Franciscan necklaces, a T, half a cross, dangle from every doorway, taunting me. I have so much left to learn from this place, from them all. How do I sift through the junk, the trash build ups in the corners? The fairies trapped in snow globes sit next to the ones of Francis and his wolf, Francis and his sheep, laughing at me. This town is a bubble. A place preserved like the Saints in their caskets, or the intestines of Francis that hide in the new chapel. The withered pipes actually rope holding up everyone here. The nuns, hunkered over in the side pews, quiet protectors of their protector. I wonder who protects me. Not a saint. Or a nun.