An upturned tortoise is the ninth most pathetic thing in the entire multiverse.
'We get that in here some nights, when someone's had a few. Cosmic speculation about whether gods really exist.
What have I always believed? That on the whole, and by and large, if a man lived properly, not according to what any priests said,
He wondered if he'd ever prayed, if he'd ever opened heart and mind to something out there, or up there. He must have done, musn't he?
Another pause, a tar pit of silence ready to snare the mastodons of unthinking comment.
The merest accident of micro-geography meant that the first man to hear the voice of Om, and who gave Om his view of humans, was a shepherd and not a goatherd.
Vorbis looked wrong here. Sharp and unpleasant. And any city where potters didn't worry at all when dripping old wet men came
Humans! They lived in a world where the grass continued to be green and the sun rose every day and flowers regularly turned into fruit, and what impressed them? Weeping statues.
'What is it you fear?...Here in your desert, with your…gods? Is it not that, deep in your souls, you know that your gods are as shifting as your sand?'
'Oh, I'm not talking about the poor bugger in the pit…I'm talking about the people throwing the stones. They were sure all right.
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