I checked the news on my phone and saw that a new verse in the bible had been discovered. It was found in a sealed pot of honey half buried in a cave near the tomb of Jesus Christ and peaked out just enough so that the lid could be lifted and its contents sampled by an archeology student who wanted to impress his peers. I read the news while I waited to get my blood drawn and thought this will be a good marker of time for my memoir, and the reticulated potted plants in the clinic softly began to resemble Via Dolorosa, the path Jesus took through Jerusalem on his way to be crucified. He walked without hesitation for he had always been walking in the direction of an exaltation that could only be anointed with blood. Only once did he pause on his path, when he placed his hand on a stone wall that shuddered with pleasure knowing hands would be placed here in perpetuity, desperate to feel the holy impression of a beautiful and kind man who transformed himself into a spectre so that we may live in flesh. I slipped my hand into the grooves of his hand print and swore to be steadied by his sacrifice as I donated my own blood eagerly. In a Red Cross trailer I was told men who had sex with men must abstain from all sexual activity for a year to be eligible for donation. I am a universal donor, an unctuous interloper and I lied, saying that I had been abstinent from unholy indulgence. I prayed for universal resurrection and for the spontaneous invention of justice as I cried in my highschool bathroom and googled statistics on HIV transmission. The blood I was to have drawn today was going to a lab to get tested and then thrown out in a metal garbage can with a foot pedal, too irreligious to be touched with hands. The results were going to tell me if I had irredeemably sinned or if I had rightly been named after an angel who guides with gold dipped finger tips. The nurse of course wanted to discuss the newly discovered verse–she asked me if I thought it was apocryphal. I told her Jesus with his outstretched arms is not a bodyguard, his arms are spread into an infinity that casts a net so wide that any excursion in the palid desert of our choices circumambulates into his embrace. The butterfly needle found my blood after three tries like Hagar found water for Ishmael on her third plea to God. Faith becomes iterative and leaps are made out of nowhere and on those nights I stole my brother’s car and found ecstasy in black tiled bathrooms, I was a douser in search of a well who had quenched himself without finding the reservoir of sweet potability. My veins looked like scripture as they constricted and as I left, the nurse asked me if I thought Jesus the redeemer would return to a world that had killed him once already. I told her I hoped not.