As we crawl out of lagoons we realize the dinosaurs are still dead. As we run with the lemmings the dinosaurs are still dead. And the dinosaurs are still dead as we watch the sky go stillborn, as the grass goes stillborn, as everything between the grass and the sky goes stillborn, too. Today, green still looks green. Blue is always a river under sun. Even with the dinosaurs still dead, God is still God, though he’s feeling pretty worn out. Can you blame him? It’s been a long ass week. It’s been a long ass month. It’s been something of a year, a decade, a century of staring at walls, of sleeping in attics. God doesn’t like to talk about it. Instead, he keeps his stillness close, resting on a bed made out of smaller beds, where he dreams of his son’s future of nails, of spikes, of thorns. God is confused. There is so much sharp shit in the world, he doesn’t understand how everyone isn’t walking around constantly bleeding.