This is my last drink.

To envy Job. To pull the monkey off your back and leave him confused in a new world. To abandon indulgence in a dark and ever changing landscape. Where mountains of questions cast shadows out across fields and lakes of wisdom that abide ignorance.

We can ask for no receipt. Nothing can truly document or give proof of the religion you consume.

Everyone always imagines that if God were to embrace them, it’d be so god damn wonderful. In his arms, comforted and at the same time telepathically bestowed all knowledge of the cosmos. I imagine he’d give a limp handshake. Probably flash some sneer across his face resulting from him trying to fight the signals from his brain that want to make him roll his eyes.

Smug. Fully aware that he is a mystery and all I can do is embrace him.

I’d feel like a lead detective put in his place at a higher agencies crime scene.