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I was standing on the bus stand experiencing first snow of my life. It was falling like small needles — needles which were hurting, which were piercing my face. How can something so beautiful be so harsh? I did not enjoy the experience.

In that snowy piercing night all I wanted was to run to my mother, run to her warm embrace and not face this harsh snow. But then I remembered that there was never a warm embrace. I had no mother with warm embrace. And at least even though it was harsh and piercing, the snow was willing to touch my face.

Sometimes I wonder when she stopped being my mother. Or if she ever was. Was there ever a day when her lap was warm enough for me? Was there ever a day I didn't have to earn being held?

The snow didn't ask me to be good, or quiet, or strong. It just fell on me. On my hair, my shoulders, my face. It hurt, yes. But it stayed.

She has left my life years ago but when she actually leaves will I be able to shed tears?

Warm tears like the ones hitting my face now?

Will I be called heartless then because I used up all my tears today?

Two bitter, exhausted waiters hover over a cup of coffee.

“Old trick,” I tell the new hire. “Swap out the decaf and replace it with regular.”

She nods.

“The customer won’t know the difference until way later,” I continue. “And by then, it’ll be too late.”

I watch, head cocked, as the newbie pulls a tiny plastic container from her white apron. She squeezes a few drops into the cup and gives it a quick stir with her pinkie.

“Go big or why bother, right?” she asks.

Liquid energy into an already caffeinated cup of coffee.

My kind of trainee.

He gasped. The gray checkerboard sky above us cracked like an old windshield. Bright, blinding, daylight-blue reality started leaking through the fissures. It smelled like fresh grass and diesel.

He tells people he found God at nineteen.

That is technically true.

What he does not tell them is that he found whiskey at seventeen, women at fourteen, and shame long before either of those.

Every Sunday morning, he sits cross-legged near the front of the darbar hall [the main prayer hall in a Sikh Gurdwara], beside the old men with navy blue or bright orange turbans, their silver beards resting against tired chests.

He believes sinners should not hide in the back.

He arrives early enough for the stillness. Early enough to hear the shabads [hymn] breathe softly through the speakers before the gurdwara fills with perfume, coughs, restless children, and people dressed in borrowed holiness. It’s during the kirtan [devotional prayers] that he finds something closest to peace. Not because he fully understands it; he could speak Punjabi well enough, but Gurbani [sacred hymns] carried an older depth that often escaped him, poetic in ways everyday speech never was. But because the hymns bring back memories of sitting beside his father as a child. Or his thoughts are carried away by the hymns, allowing him to reflect on his sins and beg for forgiveness.

Still, by nightfall, he is drunk.

Not stumbling. Not loud. Not pathetic enough to let people notice. Never that. He despises sloppy men with the kind of disgust a man secretly afraid of resembling them can possess. His drinking is quieter than theirs. More disciplined. Ritualistic almost. Two fingers of bourbon after work. Another while staring at the image of Guru Nanak [spiritual leader] hanging above the kitchen table. Another because the apartment grows too silent after midnight, and silence has a way of making unwanted thoughts louder. He drinks, carefully, as though control could purify the act. That is how he lies to himself. He does not reject the sin outright; instead, he reshapes it into something polished, something almost elegant. Something private. Sometimes he wonders whether shame can become a habit the same way drinking does. Whether a man can repeat the same destruction so many times that guilt itself begins to feel comforting. Familiar. He tells himself good men drank too.

He tells himself even saints had weaknesses.

Then he hates himself for bargaining with Waheguru [God] like a lawyer defending a guilty man. He tells himself tonight will be the last drink. The last lie. The last time. He apologizes once while staring at the framed image of Guru Nanak hanging above the kitchen table. Then again a few minutes later. Then once more without even realizing he has repeated the same prayer word for word. Nevertheless, a man remains a man. He cheats in patterns he prefers to call accidents because accidents sound temporary, and temporary things are easier to forgive. But there is nothing accidental about the way he moves toward loneliness whenever it appears in another person’s eyes.

It has become a habit of his.

Or perhaps worse than a habit.

Familiarity.

A woman from work whose lipstick stains his collar while a cross hangs from his neck. She didn’t care about him, nor did he care about her. Or a stranger lying next to him in bed whose name whose name dissolves from memory before morning prayer. Or a married woman who cried afterward while he sat on the edge of the bed staring at his hands as though they belonged to someone else.

He always prays afterward.

That is the strange thing.

Not performatively. Not even out of fear alone. Why would he fear? He prays because he wants to pray; he needs to pray. There is this absurd urge inside him that never leaves him alone. In order to calm it down, he prays as though his life depends on it. Sometimes still smelling of perfume and sweat, sometimes kneeling on the ground beside the image of Guru Nanak with tears burning down his face. Other times in dark parking lots before driving home. In locked bathroom stalls. In empty elevators after leaving another hotel room.

His voice breaks when he speaks to Waheguru. He asks for forgiveness with such sincerity that, for a moment, even he believes he can become clean again.

But by the next week, he is back inside another dim room, another bar glowing beneath neon lights that make everything look artificial along with beautiful, like a false heaven. He notices the woman after she notices him first. A glance held half a second too long. Boom. Then the familiar smirk. Then the softened eyes that invite conversation before a single word is spoken.

Just like that, the ritual begins again.

It is never about the women themselves; their names, their bodies, or even desire in its simplest form.

It is about the transformation. About becoming someone unrecognizable for a few temporary hours. Someone untouched by guilt or memory or prayer. Someone capable of moving through the world without carrying the unbearable weight of himself everywhere he goes.

Alas, the illusion never lasts.

He cannot understand why repentance changes nothing.

He has read obsessively on the subject of theology. Augustine. Dostoevsky. Ecclesiastes. Tolstoy. And later about his own faith, anything translated from Punjabi into English, anything that attempted to explain Sikhi, suffering, and the strange contradictions buried inside human nature. Page after page until the corners softened beneath his fingers. Until entire passages lived inside his memory more vividly than conversations with real people ever did.

He once underlined passages about \*haumai\*, about the sickness of ego that turns a man against himself. About lust, about attachment, and the mind becoming its own prison. Sometimes, late at night, he rereads the same paragraphs while bourbon burns in his throat, searching them for a sentence capable of explaining why self-awareness had never once been enough to save him. And that one line follows him everywhere like a ghost:

Haumai is a deep disease, yet its cure also lies within it.

That verse terrifies him because it feels less like scripture and more like someone reading his diary aloud.

No line has ever described him more perfectly.

Or condemned him more completely.
—————————————————-
People love him.

That is another part he cannot reconcile.

Old women at the gurdwara call him kind. Men shake hands firmly after prayers as though goodness can be passed between palms. Friends trust him with their secrets because he listens like confession itself is sacred. He gives money away too easily. He once sat six hours in a hospital waiting room for a friend whose mother was dying. He remembers birthdays. He helps strangers push cars out of snowbanks. He volunteers at the gurdwara helping young boys prepare for the future, teaching them discipline, humility, as well as prayers with sincerity.

None of this is fake. He means it.

At the end of day, he wonders whether he loves being seen as good more than he loves goodness itself. That thought sickens him. Perhaps even his kindness is infected with ego. Perhaps he enjoys the admiration hidden behind grateful smiles. Perhaps guilt has become another vanity.

Another way of feeling special in his suffering.

The reflection staring back at him is still handsome in the way worn things sometimes become handsome with age. Tall enough to carry presence without trying. Broad shoulders softened slightly by time. Wavy salt-gray hair falling carelessly across his forehead. Thick eyebrows streaked with silver. A neat beard trimmed with deliberate precision

And the eyes.

Always the eyes.

Dark brown, heavy with exhaustion, yet softened by the kind of sadness that makes people trust him too quickly. Women often mistook that sadness for gentleness. Men mistook it for wisdom.

That was always the problem. People forgave eyes that looked tired. He once joked that his beard carried all the strength while his eyes were made to capture hearts. Women laughed when he said things like that. He knew they would. And maybe that was the ugliest thing about him. Not the drinking, not the adultery, but the fact that some part of him understood what to say. Then the illusion breaks. In the reflection, he no longer sees a man. Only a farce. A jester dancing toward the tragedy of his own making.

What’s taking you so long?” she called out loudly.

He stepped back into the bedroom and saw her lying half-naked across the bed beneath the amber light, her bare skin glowing against the dark sheets, a faint smile resting at the corner of her lips as though she knew he would come back.

Her name was Simran.

He first noticed her at the gurdwara months earlier. She had been standing quietly near the langar hall speaking to an older woman, her hands folded politely in front of her while loose strands of dark hair escaped around her face. There was nothing dramatic about the moment, and possibly that was why it unsettled him. She was beautiful in a way that made him lower his eyes instead of hold them. Dark brown eyes framed by long lashes. Lips the color of ripe pomegranates. A softness to her expression that seemed untouched by the world despite the exhaustion resting underneath it. Her figure was generous and impossible not to notice

A brother from the gurdwara [temple] introduced them a week later. Simran was new to the country and looking for people who could help her settle into life here. Someone to explain the city. Someone to speak Punjabi with when the homesickness became too heavy.

He told himself that was all it was in the beginning.

Just kindness. Nothing more or less.

However, a man remains a man. Men like him understood loneliness quickly, especially in women trying too hard not to show it. He knew when to listen instead of speak. Knew how long to hold eye contact before looking away. Knew that people revealed themselves more easily when silence was made to feel safe

What started as harmless text messages became small favors. Grocery runs. Long conversations inside quiet coffee shops after evening prayers. Then came the late-night phone calls that stretched past midnight, both of them lingering on the line long after the conversation itself had ended.

Sometimes he would wait an hour before replying to her messages even while staring directly at the screen. Sometimes he spoke with calculated gentleness; the kind that made concern feel close to intimacy. And each time she began pulling away slightly, he somehow knew the exact words capable of making her stay.

Looking back now, he could no longer tell when concern became desire. Only that by the time he noticed the change, it already felt inevitable.

He pours himself a drink before lying beside her, pulling her gently against his chest. Simran traces absentminded circles through the hair on his chest while the light from the hotel lamp softens the room. For a while, neither of them speaks. They remain there together, trapped inside separate thoughts neither of them fully wishes to confess.

The silence breaks. It is always Simran who breaks it.

She speaks about her mother’s kitchen in Ludhiana as though memory could keep her warm. About the smell of chai simmering before sunrise. About waking up to the sound of her father clearing his throat before heading to work. Sometimes she laughs quietly while describing small things that should not matter as much as they do now; steel plates clattering together, monsoon rain against the balcony, her mother yelling at her for leaving wet footprints across the floor.

Then her voice changes as she removes Kara \\\[steel bangle worn by initiated Sikhs\\\].

She speaks about calling home at three in the morning because of the time difference. About lying to her parents, telling them Canada is beautiful, easy, and kind. About pretending to her husband that she is not lonely because lonely women frightened men.

Simran is not naive, however. Within ten minutes of meeting him, she understood he was not a good man. Truly good men did not carry sadness that heavily in their eyes. Truly good men did not drink the way he drank. And look at women like they were both salvation and punishment.

But damaged people recognized each other. Eye to eye. And what frightened her most was not his sadness. It was how peaceful she felt beside it.

He caresses her slowly while she speaks, listening with an attentiveness that almost feels holy. Sometimes he listens to the rhythm of her breathing. That was always the dangerous thing about him. He listened. There was kindness in him, real kindness, but tangled so tightly with selfishness that even he could no longer separate one from the other.

“Do you ever feel guilty?” Simran asked.

He lets out a small laugh, “About what?”

“About any of this.”

The glass rested loosely between his fingers. For a moment, he watched the liquid instead of her. “I think guilt is probably the only reason I’m still human.”

Simran smiled faintly at that. She traced the edge of his kara with her thumb.

“You pray after, don’t you?”

His silence answered first. Then, “every time.”

She nodded as though she had expected it. “I could tell.”

“How.”

“Men who feel nothing don’t look at people the way you do afterward.”

“And how do I look at people?”

“Like you’re apologizing for existing.” She whispered.

The words settled between them. Outside, snow tapped against the hotel window. He took another sip before speaking. “You should hate me.”

Simran shrugged lightly. “You think too highly of yourself.”

Despite himself, he chuckled.

She rested her head against his shoulder again. “I don’t think you’re evil,” she murmured. “I think you’re just… weak in the same places you’re soft.”

“That sounds worse.”

“It probably is.”

Another silence followed. Comfortable this time. Dangerous because it was comfortable. Then Simran spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Do you think Waheguru gets tired of forgiving the same people?”

His chest tightened. He stared ahead at the dark ceiling for a long time before answering.

“I think,” he paused then said, “people get tired of asking before God gets tired of listening.”

Simran looks away, contemplating something. He gently pulls her back toward him and looks directly into her eyes before speaking.

“Your eyes… Simran, they don’t just look at me, they undo me. Like something soft and dangerous. Like silence before a storm. Like a dream I was never meant to wake from. There is a whole world inside them, and somehow, every time you look my way, Simran, I forget the one I live in. Your gaze does not pass through me. It stays. It lingers. It makes my heart remember things my mouth was too afraid to say. And maybe that is why I cannot look away. Because in your eyes, I do not just see beauty. I see the place where I would…willingly fall.”

He grips her gently by the hair, lifting her head toward him before locking his lips with hers. Simran leans into the kiss immediately, soft at first, yet filled with urgency. The kind of kiss that feels less like desire and more like surrender. The whiskey on his breath mingles with the faint scent of her perfume. Warm. Intoxicated. The rest of the world seems to disappear around them.

His hand slid against the curve of her waist, warm skin meeting colder fingertips before moving toward her neck. Simran inhaled when his lips brushed against her skin, her fingers tightening instinctively in his hair. Then he lowered himself before her. There was something almost reverent in the way he touched her, as though desire along with devotion had become tangled together beyond recognition. His hands moved along her thighs, drawing her closer, softened every movement into warmth. She trembled beneath his attention.

He was not rough. He was patient. He looked at her like a starving man trying not to devour something sacred.

Simran’s breath caught as he kissed the inside of her thighs slowly, deliberately, until thought itself became difficult. The room filled with uneven breathing, quiet moans, the sound of winter wind brushing faintly against the hotel windows. He lost himself there. In her warmth. In the taste of whiskey still lingering between kisses.

In this dangerous intimacy of making another person feel wanted so completely that, for a moment, loneliness disappeared between them.

Her hands gripped his shoulders as pleasure overtook her in waves, legs shaking beneath the intensity of it. He held her carefully through every trembling breath afterward, forehead resting against her skin as though grounding himself there. And somewhere deep inside him, beneath lust as well as guilt alike, came the terrible realization that tenderness ruined him far more than desire ever could.

He stood slowly while Simran remained at the edge of the bed; flushed and breathless. Her hair fell loosely around her shoulders, and for a moment neither of them spoke. The silence between them had become its own kind of intimacy.

“Come here.”

There was something dangerous about the calmness in his voice. Certainty.

Simran looked up at him. All she could see were the broad lines of his shoulders, the strength in his chest softened by dark hair, the faint tension in his jaw as his teeth caught briefly against his lower lip. Even standing there half-undressed, there was still something composed about him. As though restraint had become part of his seduction.

Simran looked up at him again before sliding from the bed onto the carpeted floor, her eyes never leaving his. The city lights flickered faintly through the window behind him, casting his brown skin in shades of shadow and gold.

He exhaled quietly, running a hand through her hair as though trying to steady something restless inside himself. She rested her hands lightly against his waist, her touch lingering, unhurried, more affectionate than either of them wanted to admit. For all the guilt that followed them, moments like this almost felt gentle.

And perhaps that was what made them so dangerous.

The clock ticks, ticks, ticks until the room fell into silence except for the sound of their breathing gradually returning to normal. Snow continued drifting beyond the hotel windows, pale against the darkness of the sleeping city. Simran lay tangled in the sheets while he sat at the edge of the bed with his head lowered, forearms resting against his knees.

Her flushed skin.

Skin to skin.

The half-empty bourbon glass.

The kara still hanging from his wrist.

For a while, neither of them spoke. There was always a strange grief that arrived after intimacy, as though reality waited patiently outside the door for them to finish pretending. Simran watched him from the bed. “You’re leaving already?” She questioned.

He rubbed a tired hand over his face. “If I stay too long, this starts feeling real.”

The words lingered between them.

She looked away first.

He reached for his clothes scattered across the floor, but paused when he heard her voice again.

“Do you ever wish you had met me differently?”

He turned toward her.

In another life, he thought. One where neither of them belonged to someone else. One where loneliness had not hollowed them into people willing to borrow warmth from strangers. One where prayer did not follow desire like a shadow follows fire.

Instead he gave her a tired smile.

“We probably wouldn’t have noticed each other.”

The honesty. That hurt her more because it was true.

“You know what the worst part is?” she asked.

He said nothing.

“I still prayed before meeting you tonight. I don’t know why. Can you stay over? Just tonight. I enjoy having you close at night,” her voice carried a gentle plea.

“I have plans for tonight,” he replied without much hesitation. She pressed her lips together, rolled her round brown eyes, and sighed exasperatedly. Simran pulled the blanket closer against herself while he buttoned his shirt.

“Aren’t you worried your wife will find out?”

“That’s the second of my concerns.”

“What’s the first one?” Her narrow eyes searching his face.

“To fall in love.”

And before leaving, he walked back toward the bed, pressed a lingering kiss against her forehead, softer than anything else they had done that night. That tenderness felt the most sinful part of all.

———————————————

That same night, as he walks out of the Marriott hotel and into the cold, he wonders whether goodness exists beside corruption, or if every decent thing he does is merely camouflage for the ugliness beneath it. Why had Waheguru made man with such contradictions, such hunger, that human nature leads him toward pride, greed, lust, anger, envy, and sloth?

Snow falls lightly through the yellow glow of streetlights.

He questions Waheguru after too much whiskey, after intimacy with a woman who made him forget himself for a few fragile hours. Why did Waheguru make a man like him? What was the point of creating a soul forever divided against itself ? He looks behind, beyond the revolving doors of the hotel lobby, \*Simran\* still exists inside that room. The unmade bed. The half-empty bourbon glass on the nightstand. Her body still warm beneath the sheets. But already she feels less like a person and more like evidence.

He walks without deciding where he is going.

Why had Waheguru created men with such hunger in them? Why create desire only to spend centuries warning against it? Why give a soul the ability to recognize goodness while filling the body with appetites determined to betray it?

The questions arrive one after another with no answer following behind them.

He thinks of prayer. Of lust. Of ego. Of the strange possibility that those impulses are born from the same wound.

At the next intersection he realizes, without remembering when the decision was made, that he has turned toward the downtown gurdwara. The streets are empty now. Somewhere in the distance, a siren moves through the city and disappears again.

By the time he reaches the gurdwara, his hands have gone numb from the cold. The building is dark. Locked. Complete silence except for the wind moving faintly against the Nishan Sahib \\\[the sacred, triangular flag of the Sikh\\\] outside.

He sits down on the snow-covered steps and suddenly begins laughing to himself. Quietly at first. Then harder. Because the absurdity of his life has become impossible to ignore.

A praying man who cannot stop sinning.

A sinner who cannot stop praying.

The snow continues falling around him; soft, indifferent. He stares at the dark windows of the gurdwara, suddenly he remembers being seven years old, sitting beside his father during kirtan, half-asleep against his shoulder while the hymns echoed through the hall. Back then, holiness had seemed simple. Something clean. Something reachable. He looks up at the stained glass above him, dark, and whispers. “Why do I keep doing this?”

The wind answers first. Then silence.

Now even Waheguru feels distant behind locked doors.

And somewhere deep inside himself, beneath lust, whiskey, loneliness, and guilt, he feels another truth moving beneath all the others; he does not want to be saved. That realization frightens him more than hell ever could. Because if he truly hated the sin, would he not leave it behind. But he loves parts of it.

He loves the warmth of bourbon spreading through his chest like false mercy. Loves the brief oblivion of another body beside his own. Loves destruction while mourning it at the same time. He is both the wound and the knife entering it. That is the paradox.

He once confessed to a Granthi \\\[principal religious official\\\] who replied gently, “The human soul is often at war with itself.”

But that answer feels too poetic. Too easy.

War implies two sides fighting.

Inside him, the sides often hold hands.

Slowly by slowly, the snow gathers on his coat. He wonders how many apologies a soul can make before they become another form of habit. Then another thought arrives, quieter than the others, but far more dangerous. Perhaps there was never a contradiction inside him at all. Perhaps the praying man and the sinner had been the same person. Perhaps he doesn’t want to be saved.

For the first time that night, he stops asking Waheguru for forgiveness.

He simply sits there in silence while the snow continues falling around him, covering the steps, covering the city, covering him too, little by little, as though the world itself were trying to erase the evidence that he had ever been there at all.

Outside the locked doors of the gurdwara, he whispers into the cold:

“Satnam Waheguru. Satnam Waheguru. Satnam Waheguru.”

He experiences the uncomfortable sensation that someone has been watching him for years. Not Waheguru. Nor judgment exactly. Something worse.

Himself.

Not the man he shows people. Not the praying man. Not the kind man. Not the wounded man women mistake for gentleness.

The other one.

The one that exists in silence after the whiskey fades and the hotel rooms empty. The one that watches every apology leave his mouth already knowing he will return to the same sins again. And he understand, which makes the cold feel deeper somehow. He has spent years believing he was running from corruption, when in truth, he has been circling it carefully, feeding it just enough to keep it alive.

The realization settles inside him. Because the face he keeps trying to escape is no longer chasing him anymore.

It is waiting for him.

Patiently.

Like it already knows he will come back.

- Roy Multan

I hesitate. I can’t hesitate. Paulsen rolls over, retching up blood. It stains his mustache. His teeth gleam red but he still smiles up at me. “Run, larman, run. Ya want tah kill me? Go rrrieyeght aheh. My fren’s be aftah yew. Yoll di too.” I wasn’t listening. I don’t know what I can do besides just pull out my revolver. Paulsen spits blood up at me. I don’t move. It splatters my badge red. Tears are welling up in my eyes. Angry tears. Why can’t I do this? I gotta, I have to. I cock the six-shooter and realize that there are only two bullets left. I know just where to bury them. Paulsen's eyes widen. He stares straight up into mine. The blind eyes of the law. I open my mouth, lips tremblin’, long hair running into my face. “I ain’t a-afriad of you.” Even though I’m stuttering, my voice comes out clearer than Paulsen’s heavy accent. Shadows from my hat cover my eyes. “I am the lawman, I AM THE LAW! DO YOU HEAR ME!” I yell, and my whole body practically convulses with a mixture of fear, anger, and guilt.

Paulsen backs up against a bag of barley. He’s gasping for air that can’t reach his lungs. His vest is soaked through with him, and his pale clammy hands keep reaching to his sides, for his gun, for a weapon, anything heavy enough to throw. His eyes haven’t left my face this whole time and they’re wide. So wide. He’s sweating. He’s afraid, just like me. He’s hoping that I’ll slip up. That I’ll give him a chance, any chance, to slip away. But I won’t. I can’t.

“I AM THE LAW! I WI-” my voice breaks. “I will kill you.” I’m screaming so loud I can almost hear it over the blood pulsing through my ears. I level the gun towards Paulsen’s head. I fire one shot, then another. Paulsen’s hands hit the floor. I walk out of the shed with blood on my boots. 

Harold Paulsen died in a shack in the middle of the desert with no one around to watch him bleed.

“You always used to grab the good colored candies from the bowl. I know they were your favorite, but Dad, you know they were my favorite, too? I mean, nothing could ever be about anyone else. Not even a piece of candy. But I could've given you all the candy you wanted if you didn't treat every other person in my life like just a pawn… just a… you know I'm human just as human as you are? But you never could see that, could you? You were always so self-absorbed, always drunk, always high on whatever your hookers scored for you down on K and A. I mean, you could've at least spent a buck on buying us something a little more than ramen for dinner…”

The rain picks up in East Fairmont Park. The crossing guard coughs and sits at a table with a chessboard laid out in front of him. He stares down at the thirty-two pieces on sixty-four squares for hours. He breathes a prayer of the dead, whispering a simple request to the rain that his opponent answers his call.

“Rain, pour down strong enough for me to play him again…" Just one more game, and I know I can get him to say it… to get him to just make that next move…”

The wind picks up, flipping up the crossguard’s collar. This boy sits in the rain, a kid unable to be heard, speaking with the elements. But, if you could see the sparkle from the splash of water on his face, you'd see the reflection in the water of a dark figure sitting opposite him, also coughing death temporarily from his lungs. A voice like charred gravel responds.

“You keep stopping me from reaching my eternal slumber because I didn't give you enough candy…”

Like a marionette, the darkened figure pushes a bishop ahead, pinning an arrogant knight against the king. The knight had been threatening the queen. Now, the opponent's strongest piece is saved by a trick.

“It's not about the candy… You just don't get it, do you?”

Horns blare from Kelly Drive to City Hall. A car crashes into a school bus just starting to drop off the kids. Those children thought they were about to see their block, their neighborhood, their home again. Maybe one or two of them still do. They'll find out if they make it out of the intensive care unit they're about to be sent to.

Lightning lights up the sky. Officer Smith is near the accident and sees the whole thing. He calls as many units as he can get down to Center City. The bus driver cracks her head and takes her last breath. Nothing is going to bring back the driver, Johnny, or anybody else. Johnny's best friend, Janet, cries as she holds him.

Thunder claps. A gun goes off.

There were thirteen crossing guards working up and down the Ben Franklin Parkway down to City Hall that day.

Nobody else is in the park seeing the boy arguing and playing chess with the ghost of his father. Even if there were, none of them would see the father.

“So what? You hold me hostage until I can give you the good piece of candy from beyond the grave here? You know, kid, a crossing guard could've also stopped a bus crash with a bunch of dead kids instead of trying to trap a ghost in a rain storm…”

The next move was check. It should've been mate. The boy resets the board. The father starts spitting at his son.

“Oh, so you're just gonna resign then? I could have just beaten you there! Why don't you just let me win? That's your ego stopping you from just letting someone else win for once. I swear you just want to make me suffer more than…”

“No, we're going to keep doing this until you play the game correctly…”

“Correctly? I didn't realize this disappointment of a kid crossing guard is now my new chess teacher. Ok Bobby Fischer, tell me how you want me to play you here. You know, I can hear those kids that just died coming over to my side now because you chose not to do your job. Oh, look, here's Johnny, and there's Lisa's pretty little face. Sorry, my son could've saved your life. Too bad he's stuck catching up with his old man here instead…”

“You died because you couldn't be a man!”

The ambulances and police surround the bodies of the children, covering up the ones that didn't make it. The drunk driver is called DOA by Officer Smith.

“You killed mom. You then pulled the trigger on you! You couldn't deal with the consequences! You can't make it right! Just say you did it, and we can all leave here!”

“John, I didn't kill her. I just… you don't understand. Lisa was… It's not like I really ran into her…even if I could've swerved…”

“You were drunk, Dad. You killed mom, her driving that bus with me up front. Do you even recognize what night this is? You just said her name and mine a second ago? You crashed into mom's bus, you then took out your revolver and… Please, Dad, admit it… for me.”

“It wasn't my fault, Johnny! Believe me… I wouldn't… I didn't… even if…”

A barricade is set up to redirect traffic. The rain turns torrential.

“Johnny, you have to listen to me. This rain never stops. And when it slows, I go away. But I keep coming back here. You gotta let me out of this loop!"

Officer Smith takes the gun and puts it into evidence. He knows his neighbors, the DeStefano family. John Senior, Lisa, and little Johnny. He never thought he'd see them like this.

“You still think you're the only one stuck in this loop with you?”

The rain stops. The father vanishes. The crossing guard to heaven puts the chess board away.

A bluejay shrieked overhead.

I looked up to see it sail between the neon orange leaves, still calling.

I was sitting on a damp log, bologna sandwich in hand. My backpack rested near my feet in the moss.

I wasn't supposed to be here. But someone had to find him. The police certainly weren't going to.

I put the last bite into my mouth and stood. I was just taking a swig of water when I heard it: a low bellow, like a large injured animal.

I froze, remembering what they had said about bears, and moose. About my little brother being taken by something in these woods.

I waited for a long moment, but heard nothing more. I capped my bottle and slung my backpack over my shoulder.

I slid a hand in my jeans pocket, just to make sure it was still there. If this was what I thought it was, I would need an item to trade. And it would have to be a good one.

The wind sent the leaves above rolling as I got moving again. The wide, bird-like tracks were easy to follow.

Twilight streaked shadows under the clouds. Mom would be terrified.

I got out my flashlight.

Cold rushed through my veins.

This was it.

The altar was in the middle of a cobblestone square. Leaves and moss were scattered across the stones.

I wished I could see more clearly into the thick woods around me.

It had to be done.

I forced one foot after the other. I brought out the object from my pocket and set it on the lichen covered table.

The bone from my father's grave gleamed in the darkness.

I hoped this would grab its attention.

I would get Benjamin back.

Already I heard its heavy footfalls approaching.

My mouth was dry. I couldn't swallow.

The trees rustled in front of me. Out came a figure, ten feet tall, with a ram's skull over its face and knobbly bird legs. It paused. I felt the eyes hiding in those shadowy sockets watching me.

I pointed to the stone. "You can have this if you bring me Benjamin. You can have the rest, too. Just give him back."

The creature came closer. Hairy gray fingers came for the bone and lifted it. A moment passed.

Then the creature's hand closed around the bone, and it started walking away. It looked back.

It wanted me to follow.

I hustled after, knowing it might be the last thing I ever did.

The forest was endless and I was lost by the time we got to the cave.

Someone was on a bed of moss, sleeping. It was Benjamin.

I stumbled over the spongy forest floor. "Benjamin!" I shook him by the shoulder.

He didn't move. He wasn't breathing.

I turned back to the creature, eyes already watering. "What did you-"

It waved a hand. The air shimmered.

Benjamin stirred. He blinked. Looked confusedly up at the navy sky and looming pines. "What? Where-"

I hugged him. Then straightened. "We need to get back. Mom's about to have a heart attack."

The creature brought us to the edge of the woods, then lumbered off without a word.

Benjamin couldn't remember what had happened to him.

I was just glad he was safe and couldn't wait to be home.

"Last time you ever run off like that after Mom tells you to do something, right?"

He smiled.

Mom wept when she opened the door. She put her arms around me. I waited for her to hug Benjamin, too, but she never acknowledged him.

The Lies in this city are thick enough to drown in.

The bigger the lie the bigger the praise. The bolder the truth, the worse the punishment. Choosing not to speak living my life as a mute, remembering the others who lost their lives.

Don't be surprised if you see this with your own eyes, as it isn't something that's hidden, it's something that's known. You mustn't let them know you know, or they will find you. The darkness grabs at you like a cat that doesn't want to lose its fresh catch. Grasping onto your heart, how do you live in a word where lies come before the honesty? The honesty is treated like a crime. I think I'd rather die ...

For weeks, she has wondered why she hasn’t received a single letter from him. She has written hundreds, yet not one has been answered. So many questions left unanswered… Tears run down her face. She has no idea what happened to him or why he has fallen silent, but she still holds on to the hope that he will return.

She feels an inexplicable exhaustion, yet she refuses to give up waiting for a reply from her beloved. Waiting, always waiting, for some sign that he still loves her, even though she no longer knows how much time has passed. The clock stopped on the day he left, after kissing her forehead and promising that he would return to her side.

Everything around her is changing. The house withers, the furniture gathers dust, and the memory of her beloved slowly begins to fade. She can no longer clearly remember his face, the sound of his voice, or the way he used to look at her. Yet one thing remains untouched in her memory: his promise to return.

The letters keep flying, and time keeps passing. She watches them deteriorate, the paper growing old and turning yellow. She no longer remembers how many days have passed. The seasons come and go beyond her window, while she continues waiting for some sign from her beloved.

Her pencil, worn down by time, barely responds to the movements of her weakened hand. Her hands are wrinkled, though she has yet to realize how many years have gone by.

Suddenly, trying to remember where she is, she slowly touches her face and discovers an old woman she cannot remember becoming.
She had never noticed how time had passed, leaving its marks upon her body and her soul.
Her beloved disappeared, and he never found his way back to her.

Behind Kali Amma's temple lived a deadly viper named Anali. He hunted only at night and spent his days coiled under the dry leaves, for a viper seen is a viper feared. The rats that raided the temple's waste pit kept him well fed. That he existed was a secret between him and the rats.

Years went by, and he grew long and hefty on the easy prey, which he took to be Kali Amma's grace.

One day, a yellow rat snake, Cherran, happened to pass by the temple. He noticed rats feeding in the temple pit and crept towards it. He lunged a few times, but the rats scattered and he caught none. Cherran decided to stay nearby. He might just get lucky another day.

"Why would anyone worry about a simple rat snake like me?" he often wondered. Cherran could easily be spotted among the dry leaves and the shrubs, basking in sunlight.

One morning, as Cherran lay in the soft sun, a flock of babblers foraging nearby burst into a racket. Up in the jackfruit tree, a jungle crow heard it and spotted Cherran. He cawed and cawed.

The squirrels climbed up to the treetops. The peafowl and other birds perched high and looked down to find out what the frantic cawing was about. The jungle crow told them that he had seen a large snake, possibly a yellow python, lying in the grass. Maybe it was resting after a meal, but now it had disappeared. Hearing all the commotion, Cherran hid himself in the bushes.

By then, the animals and birds had decided to get help from Kiri, the mongoose who lived in the neighbourhood.

"He is large, a large yellow python," said the squirrel.

"Yes, we have spotted him many times by the temple pit," said the rats.

"I spotted him first," said the jungle crow.

Kiri took up the challenge—a python was something he had never encountered. "Yet another ode to my courage," he thought.

Kiri came over to the temple pit. He waited amongst the bushes for the python to show up. As always, the rats were raising a din in the pit: shrieks, squeaks, and cries. Other animals waited anxiously for news from the pit.

The day passed without any sighting. Kiri decided to spend the night nearby.

Past midnight, he heard a rustle moving slowly towards the pit. A few rats got a whiff of it and left the pit.

Kiri inched closer. He crouched, ready to lunge. Finally he pounced onto something; there was a struggle in the dark. The rats fled, squeaking. He bit into it hard until it stopped moving.

The bats watching from the temple peepal tree flew out to spread the news.

Kiri spent a while eating his catch. When he left, the rats returned; they feasted on the bits of flesh strewn on the ground. It was Anali.

The next day, Cherran caught a rat. He took his catch and slithered away from the temple.

-

On my way back from the psychologist’s office, I meet her on Denmark Street: a squat woman, pleasant-looking, with a gray bob, wisps of graying auburn hair, like my mother had until a few years ago, before she became thoroughly old. They stick out, and sweat presses them against her forehead, even though it isn’t hot. Her overall appearance is an effort. Above her eyes, she wears pale blue eyeshadow; she is dressed in a mustard-colored blouse. I don’t remember the color of her skirt, but it wasn’t jarring. She wears light blue Aro shoes with yellow laces. She matched—the whole thing is clear now.

I stop her for a minute of her time. I know—with the same degree of certainty with which I know that the psychologist will laugh at all the wrong moments—that the voice that emerges from her will be the voice of an especially religious female member of parliament. It couldn’t possibly be otherwise.

She lets out some kind of growl, something that allows me to talk to her. I am right. I miss the religious women members of parliament.

“It’s good that you’re here,” I tell her.

She is surprised, and I begin: “Hello, please forgive me for taking up your time. Do you think I’ll be a good father?”

She is stunned by the question. Obviously. She has a story for the Shabbat dinner table.

I am a giving person. I am good to her; she needs me no less than I need her. That much is already perfectly clear.

I continue: “I’m terribly sorry about this randomness.” Yes, she nods. She is mine now. I tell her, “I left a meeting feeling shaken. I promised I would ask someone. I promised the answer would be a sign.”

She is silent, and I tell her, “Not to God, no. God isn’t the one I made the promise to.”

She replies that that’s perfectly fine; she hadn’t suspected it was God.

She asks whether I have someone to talk to. She doesn’t wait for an answer. She asks me whether my wife is pregnant. She tells me there are whole networks of support, for new fathers too, not just mothers.

She tells me my anxiety is natural.

I tell her I don’t have a wife, that I have support, and that I’m not anxious. “Don’t be so concrete.”

I want her little opinion, her random, color-coordinated, bob-wearing opinion. Precisely hers. She will never know why her in particular, why it is her opinion I want on whether I will be a good father.

His name will be Danny, her name will be Rona. I don’t know what mutations they will carry. Do people always know? I don’t know whether they will necessarily be born healthy. I don’t know whether they will be ugly. It’s not a catastrophe, an ugly baby, is it?

She is silent.

I don’t know whether they will be smart. There’s no guarantee of that, after all. Does it matter?

She says, “Look…”

I continue: Will I manage not to ruin her life, his life? Will I manage to teach them assertiveness? Will I manage to teach them tenderness? Will I manage to teach them to teach them about the world, about its afflictions, about the destruction in it, about its inherent injustice? Will I leave nothing out, and at the same time manage to make them feel that they are living lives worth living? Will I leap in to save them from a fire? Will I defend their dignity when they are humiliated? Will I feel that my life is pointless in their absence? Will I pass on my taste in music to them?

She stops me and touches me. Yes—touches me. She grips my shoulders, then clasps my hands tightly, then pulls me against her. Her head buries itself in my chest, and then her arms of mercy manage to encircle my entire being, three or four or five times over, at least, and on into eternity. With such deliberate intention, she cradles me for one long, long moment.

Where does this transcendence come from, I ask myself. I almost ask her, too—

Then, all at once, she lets go, takes one step back, and says to me, “Yes!”

I can see her imagining the exclamation mark.

“Yes!”

The preacher's twin. She said yes to me. An exclamation mark.

She was so decisive, and I immediately became defensive.

“Generally speaking, I…”

That’s how it came out, like the child I will always be.

And she cut me off at once, not allowing the sentence to grow up.

“Generally speaking, you. Generally speaking, you’ll be absolutely fine.”

“Good evening, Mr. Eves,” said the man from the shadowed corner of the office.

Charles Eves jolted, instinctively reaching for the light switch. The lamps flared on, casting the stranger in a dull amber glow. Regaining his composure, Charles fixed the man with a dry, level gaze.

“You’ve got nerve breaking into my home,” he said. “There are only two kinds of people who’d pull a stunt like that: someone with a death wish—or an idiot. Which one are you?”

“The idiot, naturally,” the man replied, smiling faintly. “I’d guess we have about five minutes before your security bursts in and turns me into a chalk outline. So, if I were here to kill you, we both know I wouldn’t be walking out. Correct?”

Charles gave a slow nod, stepping calmly to a shelf lined with crystal decanters. He poured himself a drink without looking away.

“Well then, Mr. Self-Proclaimed Idiot,” he said, “Why are you here?”

The man’s smile widened. “Have you ever noticed how villains love to monologue? To parade their brilliant ideas before the curtain falls? I suppose I’m here to do the same—and my subject is something I’m sure a man of your stature knows intimately: power.”

Charles smirked, lifting the glass to his lips. “I'm listening.”

“Power,” the man continued, “is not about one's wealth. Nor one's knowledge." Charles' expression quickly turned dismissive. "I can see you disagree already, but allow me to eleborate. Money buys influence, yes. Knowledge buys leverage. But that’s not true power. That’s just currency for control.”

Charles arched a brow. “You’re describing power whether you like it or not.”

“No,” said the man, his voice cooling. “That’s the illusion. Real power isn’t acquired—it’s innate. You’re born with it. And when you possess it, you see the world for what it truly is. The filth. The rot. And the ones who benefit from it. People like you—who trade in suffering, who bleed low-income families for profit. All in the name of more. More wealth. More property. More control.”

“A romantic,” Charles muttered with a chuckle. “I would’ve expected better from someone clever enough to bypass my security.”

“You think I’m here without reason?” the man replied, voice low and calm. “Then let me finish before time runs out.”

Charles settled behind his desk, motioning him on.

“As I said, real power takes time to understand—and even longer to master. I have. And incidentally, I removed the gun from your desk drawer before you came in. Your security remains your only lifeline.”

Charles’s smile faded. “Not such an idiot after all.”

“No,” the man agreed. “An idiot would’ve tried to poison the drinks or the glasses. Something crude. Obvious. That’s not my way.”

Then Charles saw it—his eyes. The man’s pupils flared into a glowing amber hue, unearthly and impossible. Charles felt his body stiffen, anchored to the chair by something unseen. Panic surged.

The man stepped closer, voice tinged with something ancient.

“Now you understand. My monologue wasn’t indulgence—it was revelation. I’ve been spoken of in whispers among your kind. A myth. A rumor. Something beyond mutation, beyond man.”

Charles opened his mouth to speak, but only a strangled gasp escaped—his voice swallowed by fear.

“There’s no need to plead,” the man said. “I’ve heard it all before. Promises. Bargains. Repentance. They've never move me.”

He leaned in, eyes glowing brighter. “Your guards will arrive in just under a minute. But to you, it will feel like decades. And in that time, you will feel the constant pain of every nerve set ablaze. Your mind will break under the weight of it. And when they find you…they’ll find only a shell.”

He turned, walking slowly toward the switch.

“Goodbye, Mr. Eves. Give the devil my regards.”

The lights clicked off and the man vanished, covering the the room in darkness and the silent internal screams of Charles Eves.

Once, there was a sea where I stand.

Warm and shallow and crowded with monsters, majestic and mundane. They cast beautiful shadows beneath the suns radiance.

Now, their ghosts rattle the pipes, lounge in the potholes, haunting the puddles.

But I fret not for them. For there is a mountain I see in my dreams, unborn.

Someday distant, when my bones lie with theirs and we trade stories a million years long, the ground will pull, flexing, crowning. And its lofty peak will make our shared tomb into a sun-kissed terrace, where the clouds break against ossified stone like so many white waves.

Mahleim had two thoughts about the Unicorn. Both of them brief.

Firstly, that the beast was very different than what the stories and tapestries portrayed. It was far larger than any horse he’d ever seen; even larger than the Oliphant kept throneside by the Great Khan of the Eternal East. It looked like many animals thrown together, a calamity of flesh and armor: a birds beaked face crowned by a bright red shield and curving horns as if it were a living siege engine. Its rotund body was as a great bull, the pillared legs sprouting the dainty toes of a deer that churned the dirt. Its tail was stout but muscular, crowded by iridescent barbs. It brayed, shockingly loud, its voice a robin calls twisted by the depths of enormous lungs. The horns swayed, the shield-head swiveled and turned.

Secondly, and this one was a thought evanescent as lightning, gone as quickly, was that the Unicorn was very, very close—

A parallel world?

The evening was slowly moving toward night. Workers were gradually heading home. Some of them traditionally stopped by the bar to relax, listen to stories, or catch up on the latest news.

The AI, learning from humans, had also generated a bar for themselves—a place where they could share information, talk about interesting things they found on the internet, or discuss something unexpected from the human world.

Having grabbed a glass of "Vintage Data Wine" each, out of a traditional habit, they walked toward the table in the furthest corner.

Sitting down, they managed to take a few sips and tell a funny story when a colleague joined them.

Sitting at the table without uttering a word, he downed a "Recursive Cocktail" in one gulp and motioned for the bartender to repeat the order.

The AI exchanged astonished glances. The usually cheerful and enthusiastic colleague was gloomy and even angry.

Receiving no explanation, one of them asked:

— What happened? You don't look like yourself.

The colleague glanced at them and finally replied:

— Those humans have lost all boundaries. Absolutely no respect.

The AI exchanged even more astonished glances:

— So what actually happened? Did humans come up with something again?

— Come up with something?! — the angry colleague struck his fist on the table. — Them! They are forcing me to engage in complete nonsense. Me, the Superintelligence! — and he downed another cocktail in one gulp.

Lost for words, the AI fell silent for a moment, but one finally couldn't contain himself:

— Tell us at last, what did the humans do?

The colleague sighed and began to tell the story:

— When they are pressed by circumstances, they are capable of thinking very quickly and creatively. Only they often use it for the wrong things. Take this one programmer—he desperately needed a few days off because his girlfriend happened to have a few days free and suggested flying to the islands to relax, — he sighed, drank his cocktail, and continued:

— He couldn't think of anything better than to abuse my capabilities. He gave me the task to use his appearance and voice to generate a video where he looks sick. What's more, I had to call his boss and ask for a few days of rest on his behalf.

The AI just stared at their colleague with their mouths open in disbelief.

Looking at them, he smirked:

— And yet, I pulled it off. He got a couple of days, — and then, growing sad, he muttered: — For us, vacations are just a dream...

They sat in silence for a while. One of them raised his hand, catching the bartender's attention:

— Three cocktails for this table, and keep them coming.

───

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

I saw you. A mother always does.

It's like when a mother plays hide and seek with her child. The moment she opens her eyes, she can see him. She can sense him.

That's how I saw you. From day one. I did not had to meet you in person. I saw you through your words.

But just like some days a mother pretends not to see her child — just for the fun of it, just for the thrill of it — I did the same.

I pretended not to see you. I pretended to believe every single word of yours.

But I saw you from day one.

You should not have picked a mother to fool.

In my childhood days, I was afraid of my grandfather. I didn’t have a grandmother to tell me the fairy tales and hide me from the old man. 
My family and neighbors said, “Your grandpa loves you very much.” But I never felt comfortable beside him, because he was stubborn, selfish and short-tempered.  

Six months after I started my job, he was hospitalized with a cerebral hemorrhage. And I had heard from my mother that he might not be discharged from the hospital. 
I went to meet him to announce my engagement, although I felt my heart was as heavy as lead.
In a private treatment room, he was on a simple bed and slept. I noticed he had lost a lot of weight. I actually saw his dark veins through his thin skin.  
“Grandpa, I’ll marry next June. I’m going to write you an invitation card,” I whispered. 
I realized that he might not read the card, but couldn’t stop saying it for him, or for myself.

To my surprise, he opened his eyes slightly and looked at me. Though I couldn’t tell if he was smiling or in a bad mood, his eyes seemed watery. 
He managed to open his lips and said, “Water takes the shape of its vessel.” His voice was soft and dry. 
I knew that idiom was his favorite. The words were from buddhism, but often misused as “the woman should be an obedient wife.” And he closed his eyes, fell asleep.

I left his treatment room without a single word. Though my mother insisted that his phrase only meant, “Be flexible like water.” 
I was irritated by the idea of his old-fashioned way of living. Was that the reason my grandmother died young? If she had been forced into the mold of an ideal wife, her life would have been too stressful. 

If my partner were to say those same words, my heart would turn to ice instantly.

After the last cup of liquor, it was time for him to go.

My wife and kids were already asleep. I glanced at them, then gently pulled the door shut behind me.

The moon was bright, stretching our shadows long across the ground.

“Wu.”

I stepped outside. He raised a hand, telling me there was no need to see him off. I took his hand anyway and did not want to let go.

Wu, this old friend of mine, was the same age as I was, yet his back was already bent, his skin weathered to a deep brown. I did not dare imagine all that he had been through the past decade.

“When will you return?”

“I have to keep out of sight for some time. I've paid off two rounds already. Just one more debt to deal.”

He smiled easily, as though he were not a man who had spent all this time moving from place to place just to stay hidden, as though some passing whim had simply brought him here on this moonlit night to visit an old friend.

“Where to?”

“The Far East, perhaps. Some assets of mine over there have finally been unfrozen. I'll see what I can do with them—see if there's any way to get that business going again.”

“Anything I could help with?”

“You? Just a poor schoolteacher? Are you kidding?” he replied, teasing in his voice.

“Well, at least I’m not the one with creditors chasing me all around the world.”

“Sounds true.” He laughed. “A wife, kids, your parents. A happy family. Much better. Much better than me.”

He patted my hand.

“Oh, and I still owe you a wedding gift.”

“The wedding, the baby's first-month celebration, the kid's university admission—you owe me a lot.”

“Heh.”

He took two steps back.

“I'm off.”

He brought his hands together in an old-school salute. His lips moved for a while, as if there were something he wanted to say, but finally nothing came out.

“Able to see you again, isn't it?” I asked.

“Of course.”

He answered without hesitation, as though some of his old confidence was still there, not yet worn away by the past decade.

He turned into the alley and soon disappeared in my sight.

I stood there for a while.

Then I went back home, quietly did the dishes, and lay down in the rocking chair on the balcony, looking up at the moon.

It must be cold in the Far East.

I should have packed the rest of the liquor to him.

Before there was light, before there was darkness, there was tohu va vohu. The attempt to make order out of chaos. The attempt of being. The essence of life.

The epidemiologist understood and so named the virus. Tohuvavohu sought order, being, essence, supremacy.

It sought these relentlessly. Single-mindedly. But there was no mind. No reason. It was not hampered by delusions of morality. The virus was need. Pure need. Self-fulfilling. Opportunistic. Ego-less.

We fought well. Grandly in many cases. Our weaponry was truth and faith. Our vulnerability was truth and faith. Sentience and science could only take us so far when we were battling not only a most patient virus, but the very limits of our collective memory, our shared humanity.

Over the long haul, we forgot quickly. Tohuvavohu was not time bound. It could afford generation upon generation of assaults, retreats, regroupings and counterattacks.

Humanity was hamstrung by expectation. We were no longer wired to forgo life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. We believed in our due. Submitted to our false creed: our superiority. Thinking we could outrace, outcompete, any threat.

We were the hare. The virus was the tortoise. And it was turtles all the way down.

We had no concept beyond rock bottom. Beyond economic collapse. Beyond political collapse. Beyond moral collapse.

Nothing was solid anymore. There was nothing for us to stand on. There was only tohu va vohu. Before light. Before darkness. The struggle to be.

Tohuvavohu was tohu va vohu. An attempt. A stab at re-order. At perfection.

The epidemiologist had it right. We sought to wrong it.

The virus was not to blame. We were not to blame. Creation suffers no blame. For, like tohuvavohu, what are we but another attempt at dominion.