I swept the floor, this last time.

More miracles would be played out elsewhere, only as theater.  Those heaven-bound can not cast their will towards our sweet eyes if for no other reason than a sense of fairness, at last.  At last.  Sickness is coming, though, as a tremor had assured less.  Wait for the false remedy.

Remember the real acts of supernatural creation you saw here: old organs becoming new, love allowed for one more day.  Just one more.

And the lights go out.

Text and Images © Andrew Auten – All Rights Reserved