God is an emptiness in the house of futility.
A drunkard in a whiskey stupor blinks in television static through the channels of his memories — many comprised solely of white noise — as God is crying in the stalls of a bathroom.
God is a loneliness in the corpse of tomorrow.
A key drips red with the last signs of life within the center of an intersection. The asphalt, awash in the waxing and waning of artificial lights, welcomes an ambulance while God is sat motionless in the backseat of a car crash.
