Sarah's Cross pen was a heavy, spring-loaded ballpoint. He drew lines across a page of his stationery, left to right. Then he drew lines down, lines that fell into his horizontal lines. He thought of music, of watching music, of drawing music. He thought of buildings, the powerful geometry of New York, the Byzantine audacity of the Chrysler building. You build something and once it's there everyone accepts it as though it were always there, as though God had put it up, as though no one had sweated over it, as though no one planned and no one dreamed what was necessary for it. People are afraid of their own power, afraid that so much is left to their own choices. You think fear of thunder led to the invention of God? It was people's fear of themselves.
It is true that there are tremendous vital forces that rock the world and the Universe. We can even touch these forces with our spirit. But there is no rational Supermind making our decisions, no one but ourselves to consult or blame. Those foolhardy pleas in the darkness are as inaudible as they are invisible.
Bob pictured a woman on her bed weeping. Through her sobs she spoke the pains that plagued her with such eloquence that their barbs glistened above her bed like nosy stars. She was talking to Jesus.
He clicked his pen.
Object: the mashed potato
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