How many more calculations must be made to be free of belief in miracles when sunlight falls with such graceful abandon? Lip-biting onlookers have not awakened to shout their derisions to fools who still remain lost in the dregs of bad vodka. Scolding mothers have not found anything to pray upon. Wonders wander around centers of being long forgotten. A daughter cries for attention in the loneliest corner. Dry compassion waits for those less well-fed. A donkey-rider enters the city claiming to possess the secret of being in relationship with God and neighbor.