Try figuring Time and you’re in a state of obstruction from the start. What I mean is you finish clogged around where you started, unless you form a Theory, become a brilliant artiste of manifesto squiggles. Theorist squigglers are responsible for sonic bangs and mental derailment; they’re our Em Ones for strap-hanging right out of existence by the neck. They can’t discuss murder or the cost of fags with a wagon repairer, not over a casual sort of man-to-man pint.God again, where does one get in trying to measure the facts about God? Figure Him out for fair. You’ll hear the sweetest talkers on earth assessing God. Language lemmings they are, and we reckon to ourselves, that’s it, that’s as far as he can possibly go. God-wise he’s there, he’s reached his Lordward limit. Then the wandering telly camera happens to poke at him when he’s listening, someone else explaining (another Almighty statistician), and by the crucified Christ he looks bad, worse than poorly, he looks ill.
