Dear Sir. S.A.:

Walk up the stairs, to your right is the Goddess of money. Walk to the side, buy some flowers, yes, you can smell them. Walk to the top, take off your shoes, if you have to touch your shoes to take them off, walk to the basin, wash your hands. The floor is a little wet, come inside, sit like this, yes, cross your legs.

Now pray.

Pray? Okay... shift posture, open spine, 双手合十，close eyes... Grace, posture, grace, posture... Now what is pray, pray for what, what pray, pray, feels unfamiliar on my lips, pray, the weird shape the mouth makes saying it... pray... is what? I'm the ultimate atheist, determined by birth. Pray... "S.A., I hope you fulfill all of your dreams, be happy and make people happy. K, I hope you have a beautiful baby one day. Mom, don't frown, I hope that dreadful weight on your shoulder puffs away soon. Dad, I hope next time you puff a smoke you feel an innocent joy for the first time in your life."

Every minor ritual makes you feel warmer, as if the smile of approval has stretched a little more as you obeyed without doubts, amenably repeating each naive act--a rare occurrence that you did just for the sake of doing. On a physical level, worship is but a series of rituals, slowly and gently maims reason and desire.

Love has its own rituals. Fall, rise, fall, rise. The last ritual to seal it all is to listening to Pink Floyd high. 

And think about that person you performed those rituals with, without knowing, feel a bit more complete, more substantial, like those warm dumplings finally settled in the stomach, making you feel one with all the magic that is the world. The line between the two puzzle pieces smooth out.

Of course, I missed my puzzle piece forever already.