Sitting in the row in front of me a handsome man in his forties. Fingers tattooed with black letters, silver rings on each, bracelets and dark earrings, leather wrist band, clear blue eyes under golden lashes, hair shaved at the sides and a long ponytail of blond and curly hair that almost reaches his butt, short boots, black jeans and a gray jacket with a dark shirt underneath. And a clerical collar. His name is Markus, he is a street priest: his assigned parish is the streets, at night, and his mission is to help the underprivileged and the exploited. Especially prostitutes. In Sweden, the Protestant Church often works like this, hands on in the dirt, like Christ with the lepers.
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