““He has a cigarette dangling loosely from His lips, the lit end smoldering and showing itself to me as the moon. Its heat caused the colors to melt into one another and the flicked ashes streak down the sky as shooting stars. Did the stress of perfecting Creation ever get bad enough to make God need a cigarette? I mean, He has to be stressed making something like me and my situation, right? You can’t be relaxed and at ease when you do that. He can’t not give a damn. I wonder how many times He redrew me before saying to hell with it. Then I looked at my clothes and bare feet. To hell with it, indeed.””
