A Date With a Ghost

There we were, my coffee cup and I secluded in the corner booth where flights of new realities, my own created children, rose and soared and readily transmogrified, touched down and died according to my will. I loved them all. They were my fleet of consciousness and altogether temporal, yet in their frailty could darken houselights, raise their stage to hide the universe and for the nonce assume totality. A single wisp of thought came through and it was no surprise to be aware that the professor with his pipe, tweed coat and frowzy hair now sat across and looking at me quizically, but not disposed to answer any questions I was eager to propose, though I had read his latest book, and knew his vast research could lead me down the path I wished to go. For the moment I could merely know he was my august puppet, not my key to magic chests of insight... that he shared the wisdom of the academes that I once listened to, and who would only point the way. My cup was empty; I snapped back and saw the room return, and it was time to kill him off in tenderness. "You know" he said, as he began to fade, "I cannot help but go out wondering, what kind of God are you?" ~