As god was working his divine rearside off, trying to replicate his abode on earth, as he twisted clay within his hands and made out his divine image in two ungaily stickmen, those eyes didnt comment on his craftsmanship. If god was a better sculptor, we would have been living in paradise. He was the prodigious kid. He was also the prodigal son. Those eyes waited for him to falter. For him to fall on his knees, in frustration, for failing to be the promise he was born as.
God could have made a better sculpture. His fingers very nimble, dexterous. He simply chose not to. Thus was his revenge. We are collateral damage of god's self-exacted revenge on those formless eyes forcing him to form.
hmmm and hmmbug contemplates
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