Ichabod knew others found him odd. In fact, from their restricted
measure of the strange, he knew and understood the range of reasons
why they would. But Ichabod found only one thing odd. That no one
grasped the most overt phenomenon of all: that everything they saw
or smelled or felt or thought or touched or looked at was a miracle.
He’d sometimes grow satirical in livid diatribes he’d orate to himself,
imagining he’d change the lives of these unknowing tribes with itemized
accounts of evidence of all their mindless blindness. But no, there was
no laugh in that. It would be like naming all the evidence to Money
of the impotence of Money. Wasn’t funny. He didn’t want to rain on their
parades – or spoil the charades they took as living. He had no taste for
public strife. He liked instead to let his rife Imagination hop through all
he saw or smelled or felt or thought or touched or looked at like a bunny.
A case might well be made, if ‘they’ were right that some Big Bang had
set our whole thing into flight, and therefore also had to be the genesis
of light, that life by definition was, and ever would be, sunny.