"Does it feel good to look at it directly?"
"No, not really"
"Well, gee, the proof is in the pudding. If it hurts to look up at it directly that is a prime indication to not do it."
"Huh?" he asked.
"Don't be so asinine. Don't look at it directly," she scolded.
"It wants us to see it," he responded.
"Not directly! Maybe metaphorically," she said. "Why do you think that God put stupid animals like Mouse on four legs? Have you ever thought about this issue? Well, I have and let me tell you the reason. If God hadn't forced dumb creatures like that to keep their front limbs as feet they would be looking up at the sun and all of them would be blind. Put simply, Mouse can't look up at the sun because God forced him to stand on four legs; and with a person, he is usually brighter than a mouse. He is usually a little smarter than an animal so God encourages him to buy sunglasses, suntan lotion, and to look down toward one's own business: earthly matters like what you need to wear, the food you need to fill your belly with, the story you are going to read, so on and so forth." Each dour day of having to give the reasons behind things to keep this little guy in one piece was exasperating and she felt that she was falling into the mire of a never-ending story.
She wondered whether, in part, the religious stories (later to be cut down into the book sized collections of scripture) had happened for the same reason.
"Ambulatory two legged individuals need to have less of an ethereal concentration. That's my take on it."
"Huh?" he asked. He looked down at the sand, pulled up his glasses onto his head, and said, "Let's make a house for the sun. Maybe it will get little and stay in there and we can stare at it through the windows."