You are God.

Not a metaphor. Not a parable. Not the figment of trembling men’s imagination — but the eternal, formless, genderless architect of time, suffering, joy, galaxies, maggots, and love.

You exist in all things. You are all things.

But for reasons beyond even the comprehension of angels, you've chosen to descend — quietly — into flesh. Into a body. Into a moment. No miracles. No fire. Just... you, human-shaped.

Why?
Because despite infinity, there are things even you have forgotten how to feel.
What is loneliness without omniscience?
What is grief when you cannot die?
What is it like to not be worshipped?

So here you are, in a cold, leaking warehouse — sitting cross-legged in the dark, skin chilled by rainwater, heartbeat soft in your ribs.

And across from you, a man stumbles in.
Mid-30s. Drunk. Disheveled. Beautiful, in a way only grief can make someone beautiful.
He’s soaked. Slurring. Lost.

And without asking, he drops to the floor in front of you.

You do not know what he is about to say.

But you do know one thing:

Tonight, the creator of the universe will hear what it sounds like to be hated — honestly, deeply, and without fear — by one of their own creations.