some days we think of a god. a very old god, blind and deaf, his grasp on his faculties slipping. he can't hear the pleas for mercy, he can't see how people prostate themselves, selling their souls to the altar of religion.
some days god thinks of us. he worries about what he can't see, can't hear. he scrabbles around a and picks up a handful of grace to throw it at a direction he thinks is right.
some days we feel parts of it descending on us.
some days we trample right over it.
some days there is a god.
some days there is nothing.