My ears ring all the time, anyway—night and day, day and night, as in the song, a sound like spring peepers at a distance, sometimes like a million dinner bells tinkling, tinkling, tinkling, and at other times like a flutenote I'd give a great deal to stop. They rang harder, now. She'd hit with her hand taut and compressed hard air against the shrill, soniferous membrane. It hurt like the dentist. I scrunched myself together and let the sweat roll and looked out the window. The pain calmed down and I kept staring out, hating the earth, afraid, miserable, cheap. I fought back.
Once upon a time, billions of years ago, there was a Knower who is identified these days by the name of God.
He was totally conscious.
He was the Custodian, which is to say the Other Property, of mass-energy and space-time. He was the sublime entropy of the primordial atom, It, the universe, the stable pattern, the All, harmoniously balanced, a fixed ecstasy unmoving and so without Age.
Unfortunately, He-She developed an Ego. (Serpent? Eve? The Old Adam?)
It occurred to Him that the perfection whereof he was the Cognizant Comptroller might be more interesting if set in motion. A slight swirl, perhaps: something gentle, along an elliptical path.
(Such an impulse, of course, expresses a Flaw in God's consciousness, or perhaps only an extra electron in the whole, or—it may be—the infinite tedium of Infinity; most likely of all, the idea that Perfection is predictably unpredictable.)
Anyhow—one deduced that He gave all His electrons and His positrons a twist. Naturally, there followed an explosion. Naturally, this puffed Space into existence, to make room for itself.
(Out went the windows, the doors, and the walls.)