As the final few drops shatter the mirror, he stands; bottle in hand, swimming in an absurd 
sea of carelessness and raw emotion. He surrenders to the current. Waves in the process of 
conception pull His arm back and the build up of the waves release; bottle flies from hand, 
in turn it smashes with wall... bottle smashes to glass shards, glass shards shatter to sand. 
Sand particles become stars. One day He ends up in prison, or at a day job. 

It’s self-inflicted torture. 

And they dare to say that He killed a man. Is it really a crime to kill oneself? Only just 
a fraction of what one is? A millionth—-so many decimal points that it just turns in to a 
flat fucking line. Like when He died: perpendicular lines intersect at the son of God. 

Others think he’s a bum; He doesn’t exist, even though they pass him everyday on their way 
to buy lottery tickets. Today He hangs his head in shame. Maybe it was even yesterday. 
That’s not quite the point. The point is I expect too much, and the truth is He is an 
alcoholic. And an abusive parent. How else can you explain premature baldness, and the cancer?  

Anyway, like most bad parents, He was there (and totally down) for the creation part. 
After that He deserted you, and left us hopeless. Lost. He might as well not exist anymore.

—-He pretty much never has.