Sometimes I sit and think, pondering the luxury of an unquestionable faith in something; to know that innocent kids killed in a pre-Christmas tragedy will somehow find a better place.
From a cathedral of sticks I gaze across at the towering neo-Gothic spires of St Pauls; the site of the first public Christian services here, back in 1836
In the passing city throng I see small glowing faces, cheeky eyes alight with expectation at the approach of Christmas and the wonders each day invariably bring.
I hear squeals of delight, their mischievous laughter. Excited steps echo, of tiny feet; for why would you walk when you can hop, skip, run and jump? Life is always today.
I hear the silence.
I hope for enough Bhutanese puppies with white tips on upright wagging tails; the white tips are bobbing lights to guide these Sandy Hook schoolkids through the darkness to wherever they need to go.
Sometimes I just sit.