I'm A Hot Mess (on occasion)

An all powerful, omniscient, omnipresent God, who causes Himself to be reborn of a Virgin herself immaculately conceived in order to redeem a world, which stands in need of redemption only because He didn’t choose to do a better job when He was creating it—well, you admit, that’s no more worthy of credence than that the panoplied Minerva sprang from the head of Jove. But even in his mysticism man is a creature of habit. The ancients found it as hard to get rid of their Minerva as we do to get rid of the Virgin. The ruin of faith totters on undetermined foundations and all kinds of deistic scaffoldings have been erected to keep it from falling. All of you sway hither and yon somewhere on these scaffoldings. Don’t think, my friend, that I’m a mere dupe of the Enlightenment. I know perfectly well that mysticism is one of the noblest qualities of man and can never wholly perish. But when from your uncertain scaffoldings you seem to see a bit of it, immediately dizziness seizes upon you, for you are not yet strong enough to bear the vision of emptiness without tottering and losing the little mind you have.

It has rained for five days running the world is a round puddle of sunless water where small islands are only beginning to cope a young boy in my garden is bailing out water from his flower patch when I ask him why he tells me young seeds that have not seen sun forget and drown easily.