When I woke up this morning, I laid in bed thinking about the class assignments I should be further along in, the usual kind of dreams which I had to sort out a little, my need for a shower. And somewhere in the middle of that I wondered about it being saturday. I imagined Christ lying dead on a dark slab, his mutilated body finally left alone but lifeless, because it was both murdered and self-gifted. I imagined his friends and followers, the ones who philosophized and the ones who thoughtlessly believed him, walking around their houses and slowly making another meal with disappointment thick between them, weighing down any talking. I wonder if it rained like it is raining today.

I know now that tomorrow something will have happened in the greying body on that cold slab, something electric and scientific and completely new. The self Jesus was would return to the scarified muscles and skin, he would get up, and somehow his real and hot death would be pushed back into a memory of his history. He would be alive, untouchably so, and he would go in search of the ones he knew were sad and hopeless without him.

Today is Saturday though, he is still a body without a person inside of it wrapped in linen and preserving spices.

Oddest to me is that my next thoughts shifted seamlessly into breakfast and the decision between wearing a green or coral shirt for the day.