Genesis 1:1 abr.
Just fifteen minutes until closing time, and all I can comprehend are giant dirigibles and old fashioned flying machines. There I am, weightless, goggles on, performing loop-de-loops as my children watch from the ground below. Kids are amazed by anything! I land choppily and give my son the scarf my own father had untrusted me. It's when I wrap it around his neck that I realize just how big he has gotten. Our compatriot Wilbur zooms by on a velocipede. Leagues of sunny maritimers pursue him down the boardwalk. Life is good by the sea, in the air. Wilbur comes back to us and says, "Here, you'll want this." He removes his head and tosses it to my daughter. Wilbur is, in fact, an automaton. Little Mavis squeels with gaiety at her new antiquated face. "I'll oil you every day!" she says. "And brush your tin hair and we'll play jacks and marbles and share our secrets...though you mustn't tell anyone!" Wilbur is delighted. He says, "Let us embark for the city of tomorrow."
"Excuse me, sir? Can you validate my parking?" a woman says.
"Why, of course. That is no problem. Do you worship God, or gods?" I ask.
"Neitzsche is a faggot. God is Alive," she says. There are bits of stained glass in her hair.
I swoop a ticket into her hand, a pterodactyl returning to feed her baby dinosaurs.
"Can you even begin to understand His majesty?" she asks.
I call for the manager.
"Excuse me, sir? Can you validate my parking?" a woman says.
"Why, of course. That is no problem. Do you worship God, or gods?" I ask.
"Neitzsche is a faggot. God is Alive," she says. There are bits of stained glass in her hair.
I swoop a ticket into her hand, a pterodactyl returning to feed her baby dinosaurs.
"Can you even begin to understand His majesty?" she asks.
I call for the manager.