In my beginning is my end.


He looked up, and God answered. The buildings about him spun; his head remained a still spot in the centre of the city’s merry go round. The light of the Sun bore down on him, squinting shut his eyes. God was there, in the sharp light of the frost-pinched winter’s day. God spoke to him, in dousing heat glowing through his skin. The crowds fell upwards, spiralling with the buildings into the blank stare of the open sky.

He opened his eyes, and he could see God. He saw the God of his childhood; the creator and destroyer of all things bright and beautiful. He saw the inscription of the name of the Almighty in every darted foot, each swiping leg clashing with his fallen body.

He heard hymns; two restless tones, shifting between Father and Son, heralds of the Spirit whose harmonies had been silent to him for decades, swirling in the blare of the streets. His breath gasped out in silent song, in the cold air just hot enough to sculpt the words in marbled steam.

A light shone quick in his eye. A voice told him to look up. He looked up, and answered God.

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