God sees the fall of every sparrow. God is every sparrow.
Every night there are books of poetry waiting in the sky.
The sparrow’s place is to fall, God’s – to fall and rise again. Such motion is all that occurs and is of no consequence.
The books tell stories all of which, ultimately, are lies. The sky, with its quiet weight of silence, waits between the bones and the letters, which are bones in the making. I can finish this tale only by stopping.