When everything has been said,
and no set of words is original,
the true writers will kill themselves
for how can you create something already created?

When everything has been made
in every form at all,
the engineers will stab their eyes with pencils
and scuptors will suffocate in their clay
and painters will poison themselves with lead.

When you live to create,
what's the point of life
if there's nothing left
to make?

That's why I believe there isn't a God.

Because I wouldn't be a Maker.
I'd just be a Serviceman,
making the plans from God's ideas
and never creating truely.

I don't think there's one onmipotent being.
I think there are spirits.
I think there are Q.
I think there are things we cannot yet understand.
But no, your God is not mine.

I don't care if he loves me. I don't want his love.
I know what his love has done to mortals.

I need not his love to live a happy life.

I can be God in myself,
creating even a new teardrop,
unique in time and space.

Never will everything be created.
It's a lucky thing too.

Nothing and everything...
Infinity and utter 0.
All drawing to chaos in a delicate dance.

I wonder if I had a reason to write this.
But it's alright.
Creation again.