The essence of God

Call me Armadillidium vulgare...

Call me Armadillidium vulgare, or roly-poly, or pill-bug, or coward—I roll up into a tight ball when he gets home. Not because he’s violent, although he’s got the essence of it, but more because of his disapproval. It bedaubs my shell; inside, I’m warm and sheltered from the condemnation.

The essence of violence pervades the air—return to this with me—because children return to this and live in it forever.

Now he’s gone, and the daily internal probe, Would I even care if he died? has been answered. God is dead.

Yet, the resilient essence of violence remains.