alone, outside of time—
and earth because angels are boring.
I left open doors for evil to enter
and made man for my companion—
who now can hardly see me.
I cannot say I did not wait too long to light that fuse
or too long once the clock exploded into being
to mold clay into my likeness.
I got distracted by the gasses
all the cool stuff they were doing—
coalescing and firing—
till things got hard.
Or was that you?
You who read this may be the man of clay for all I know, the only one I ever madeall the rest, all history, science, poetry, all you call the universe
or multiverse—the cosmos—all of it your own projection
to save yourself
from my insanity.
We should talk.