Propriety once segregated us from girls, and passion followed suit. No laws or papal bulls applied to adolescent guile within these walls. For all that we were rendered regular by bells, each body’s pulse subordinated to the school’s, mortality’s unsentimental chisel gnarls a boy’s credulity, and scepticism kills his faith. The gods he worships then are human pals, imperfect but more beautiful than bloodless souls. Beneath a plaster Virgin’s blindness, like a doll’s, a pair of us replace cold prayer with spattered vowels of inarticulate delight. Each of us feels himself, unlike the sheets our ecstasy defiles, unspoilt by the division of our bodies’ spoils.