There comes a point, in the development of some societies, when the material needs of the people are met to such a degree that the creation of art may become the primary focus of human attention.

I say, “please give me one more day.”

He replies, “what would you do with a day, when you will not live in a moment?”

“All the finest things”, he said,”are best accomplished before seven, in the morning.” He took another pull from the green glass bottle. “I believe it is God’s intent that we should all bask in the bounty of his gifts.” For emphasis, he firmly set the bottle down on the plain wood table. The small terrier sat and watched, in rapt attention, as he gestured out the window with the sandwich held in his other hand. “You see that sunrise out there? Why there’s no finer sight in all the world.” The terrier gazed at the sandwich. Growing excited, he said, “You know, It’s a fine day to accomplish great works.” The terrier lunged as the huge chunk of meat slid from between it’s bread. He cursed. Then laughed. “Fine day indeed!”

You can join if you want.

I think you’re great.

The only requirement to join is that you think I’m great too.

I don’t think everything you do is great…

but I don’t think everything I do is great either…

I still think we’re both great.

Evil speech in the absence of the subject is cancer. It oozes to the subject through slimy back alleys. It destroys trust. It instills fear. It empowers it’s wielder, in the moment, then leaves them wondering who else is slave to its power.

Each time I sit the toilette I feel a ghoul.

When I squat in the woods I am nature.

I’ve heard that you have to learn the rules of an art before you break them. What if I’d rather not?

God made us like him. That’s the premise as I understand it. “God created man in His own image; in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them.” That’s the New King James version – if you’re curious. I mean the only bit that isn’t really clear is the whole image thing. When I think image, I think visual, and unless God has a penis and a vagina that, on it’s own, doesn’t make a lot of sense… or it makes a whole lot of sense… either way…

I imagine it’s the same way I’m like my father. Growing. Learning. Always imperfect. And, to me, that’s the really interesting part. Why shouldn’t a god grow, and evolve, and learn, and change? I am capable of all of those things. Surely any deity who begot me could be capable of no less.

Old Testament, New Testament, Koran. Books written by the hands of men. Books written as reactions to the conditions each man believed his god had created on earth for him. Ask the first born what dad was like growing up then ask the 8th born.