Sometimes we feel that God is not such a fair man. I hate to say it. He may allow a man to meet a woman, a boy to meet a girl, not when they are dressed in their finest clothes, but when they are in their finest sense. Then He decides to rewrite an old story about uncertainty. He smiles. He drinks a cup of time. He puffs on a sorrow.
Look. He is beginning another prologue. And suddenly we learn another epitome of uncertainty, one that no probability theory could ever teach us in a classroom.
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Perhaps God does not recognize the standardization of the basic measurements we have agreed upon. Time, above all. For we, and this universe, exist somewhere within His mind—inside the boxes of His thoughts—floating, gathering mass, only to be drawn again by His gravity. And He is, after all, a good writer. Perhaps that is why people do not wish to know their destiny, their epilogue. Perhaps that is why they hesitate before asking for free will. Perhaps that is why they dream of building time machines.
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We should know, indeed, that we do nothing. Let us be empty. No improvisation. No appreciation. No applause. We are in a theatre occupied by no one but uncertainty.
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