Today, at last, it had evolved from probably-a-good-idea
into inarguable law. He’d learned whenever he saw something
he knew others would find very odd, which lately it had often
fallen to his awed regard to witness like a prophesy, so stirringly
absurd it might have come from God, he knew he’d have to keep
his maw shut. No one will believe me, he explains, that I saw
Thor
and his associates drop lightning bolts last Sunday from the
astral
plane at midnight over Staten Island; nobody would heed me
now
if I avowed I just espied a multi-colored self-impelled contraption
flapping just above Gowanus, south of the canal, from which
several voices, mostly baritone, in Brooklyn accents, could
be heard
intoning hymns to Venus and Adonis. He’d been rebuffed enough
when he’d attempted to relay such miracles before: he’d need
no more admonishment to keep these secrets to himself: he’d
carefully inscribe, in code, his bold (and very likely God-derived)
illuminations in a private notebook he’d keep hidden on a
shelf
no one would ever find.
It didn’t matter after all.
They’re in God’s mind.
.
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