What is this World? What kind of place is it?
The round kind. The spinning kind. The moist kind. The inhabited kind. The kind with flamingos (real and artificial). The kind where water in the sky turns into beautifully symmetrical crystal flakes sculpted by artists unable to stop themselves (in both design and quantity). The kind of place with tiny, powerfully jawed mites assigned to the carpets to eat my dead skin as it flakes off . . . The kind with people who kill and people who love and people who do both . . .
This world is beautiful but badly broken.
I love it as it is, because it is a story, and it isnt stuck in one place. It is full of conflict and darkness like every good story, a world of surprises and questions to explore. And theres someone behind it; there are uncomfortable answers to the hows and whys and whats. In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. Through Him were all things made . . .
Welcome to His poem. His play. His novel. Let the pages flick your thumbs.