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You sit on the top of the world, lord, and yet I wonder what you can and can’t do. Can you shut down a storm? Can you make a mad man mild? Can you turn ships into fish and fish into fowl? The stories of old suggest you can do anything you set your mind to, because your mind is the world. The stories also suggest that I might find you, a shadow-shaped serpent, where I least expect it. Let’s say I meet you down there, man to god, and I look you in the eye: what will I see? The destroyer of worlds, or a fool in love? Will I see everything that ever happened or all that’s yet to happen? Or will I see nothing but myself, and when I grab you, stand empty-handed and naked? Shall I bring a sword to our meeting-point, or a feather? The stories of old suggest you can turn a feather into a wing and attach it to any one worthy of flying. I am worthy of changing into a free creature, I’m ready to fly through the sky. And if I don’t pray tonight, because I’m too tired, will you overlook it? And if I kill an ant, will you avenge her? And if I stop asking these questions, will you answer me? Can you turn me into someone else against my will?