would be a mistake to say that in the beginning there was nothing. There was
something—a very distinct and definite something—lying deep in the psyche
of the One who was lingering there in the dark, waiting.
There was a thought
an idea of one kind or another, which gave voice
to the task of converting matter to energy, colliding heat and color.
It may have been easy, what do I know? It may have been like
switching on a desk lamp.
Which is to say, a very distinct and definite event
some discontent with the dark
the spark being the thing.
And there was evening and there was morning
the first day