Seek your confessional. Reach through the grille of Reconciliation, the dainty face of your penance. Pull aside the faded rose curtains, the color of a dusty, distant sacrifice.
See who would listen to you: a silver harlequin; pale, angular and thin like a bolt of lightening. Your blanched confidante is an emblem of your generation's debauchery, hiding a woman's undeniable cruelty behind a feral mask. It lingers in the air like incense. Your shoulders tighten, waiting for her heel. This is who would siphon your secrets with a kiss and a sneer.
Kneel. Close your eyes – and rest your burning cheek against the cold, white bones.