Fugue # 23

He went to bed late and was tormented with disordered dreams all night, or what was left of it.

In one, Gene appeared in backlight, haloed. His face was glowing blue, and he was speaking insistently about something - it was the right voice, but the words weren’t words; sounds and syllables, but no meanings. He said he didn’t understand, and shielded his face with his hand to block the light, filter it. The words began to change, starting softly and growing louder, becoming recognizable.

"It’s astonishing that you still believe in words."

Gene smiled.

"Listen: God isn’t in the details. God is in everything but the details. The prime mover, if there is one, moves only twice. Our terminal fates - the Alpha and the Omega - the beginning and the end. The being from nothingness, and the nothingness from being. Birth and death. We share these things, but not what happens inbetween.

And the rhythms and paces of everyday life, the happiness as well as the sadness. The cold loneliness of crowds - not knowing anyone but yourself - and the warmth of love... all of that really vital, interesting stuff matters only in juxtaposition with the simple shared inevitabilities of your first day and your last day, and the understanding that everyone has those two days, too."

The light got brighter, and became the sun overhead.