I’ve always liked the idea of the confessional box. You sit inside the ornate wooden booth, the window in between slides open, and through a mesh of shadow you divulge to the priest all of the naughty things you’ve done: you stole someone’s forgotten quarters at the laundromat; you said the word “fuck” three times yesterday; you had impure thoughts about your gym teacher last night.

All you have to do is enter the dark box of wonder, chant a couple of Hail Marys, only to emerge—ta dah!—a spiritually cleansed, new person. And here I thought Catholics hated magic.