This morning when a pigeon abruptly fluttered past my face I automatically said “dipshit,” like I actually annunciated the word, and its commentary sincerely inhabited me. I soon, of course, felt absurd for anthropomorphizing haggard urban fowl, and grimly went on my way. About two blocks later, a derelict man was standing in middle of the sidewalk, hunched over and teetering either in inebriation or its hangover, and struggling to bring a cup of “to go” coffee to his lips. As I passed, I inaudibly uttered “get a fucking grip,” in a heat which soon cooled to the notion that I might be a dick. The entire problem this morning were not these two incidents, but the entitled conceit with which I had perceived them; that is, as perilous subjects of some calm critique emitted from the eyes of an omnipotent being. Maybe this is how God endures us, not in the Stratocumulus distance, or some closed-eyed spiritual ether, but as a rogue pedestrian. A ghost, facing us. And maybe he was hurt as a child, perhaps by the Big Bang, its expanding ripples of subatomic particles breaking a rib or cracking a clavicle before opiates were discovered. Maybe now, as a grown man, he tells himself stories about being a God, in the greatest novel never written, or even started, whilst carrying toilet paper back from Walgreens, whose endless rolls, as a blank Torah scroll, would one day offer the scatological testament of pure chaos.