I was reminded of stalagmites rising from the floor of some deep cave.
The interior was cold and grey— I half-expected a bat or two to swoop out from behind a pillar. Everything about this church reminded me of a cave or a mine, except for the cacophony of cranes and drills, camera clicks and nasal American teenagers. It would have been beautiful if I could have turned out the sound. I rummaged through the recesses of my bag for my iPod, hoping I could at least plug into Chopin, but alas, I had left it in Lapin's living room.
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