A question, God, if you have time. And if you don't, well that's just fine. I'd like to know, if you don't mind, just how can you be so very unkind? I see these people from day to day, who have nothing and give it away. They turn the pages every night, and never see your shining light. Some have terrible, terrible scars, from loss and death and pain and wars. And some have voices in their head. Some, it seems, are better off dead. Still they paint your bearded visage, and that of your son, made in your image. So what do they get for their bottomless faith, but hunger and poverty...murder and rape? I do not ask for myself, you see for I have all that I'll ever need. Which confuses me that much more, I suppose. Because I need no Sunday clothes.