God gives you a needle, a feather, and a rope. The rope was a mistake. When you mistook the feather for a metaphor, you were embarrassed. My child, God said to you, be content. God gives you a swastika divorced from history. He gives you data inconsistent with the observed. God gives you a song, and your entire life you spend revising it. At its core, God says to you, it has not changed. No longer immutable, God gives you forgiveness. No longer God, he flirts and buys you a round. You take the round and load it into a rifle. God, you ask, can’t I go back to the needle and the metaphor? He insists you not romanticize the past. God gives you bloodstream, bones, and loneliness. He extracts impurities lingering in the soul. I am first and foremost a scientist, God explains to you, heavy-hearted, and with primitive tools.