When our sun explodes in ten billion years, God will no doubt call it quits.
A care-worn God will stand over the universes, folding up the fabric of time like a tattered quilt.
Epochs, neatly creased and caressed in God’s fingers, will lay atop each other in the thickening bulk.
God will sing a simple, sad melody with the words, nullum sine exitu iter est.
There is no journey without an end.
Will it have been worth it?
All the pain of all the sensible creatures?
All the insensible fictive accounts of deity?
The Supreme fiction tendering resignation to the Most Supreme fiction?
Featured image ‘Universe’ by Sergio L. A. via Flickr