One morning -- general academic consensus now dictates that this was a Tuesday morning -- God climbed out of bed, stepped into the shower, and died. His body lay under the running showerhead for days, if not weeks; it was only when the building supervisor arrived, upon the request of a concerned neighbor, that his shell was discovered, all naked and glistening and smelling of rot.

Down at the coroner's office, on what must have been a Thursday, a man in white explained to whoever was listening at the time that an aneurysm had ruptured in that holiest of lobes, the temporal. He described how so much blood and so much of all that blood carries had spilled out of God's brain and into God's skull and funeral arrangements were in order. The man in white then offered his condolences, pushed his glasses to the sky, and shook several hands. He went home and slept well, as he does most nights.

Those who had known God were shocked to hear the news, not by any sense of personal loss, but because he had always been so unobtrusive, like a streetlight that would never go out. As he maintained every atom of you in loving memory, he would often be seen carrying his groceries home after a night shift at the theatre. His coworkers appreciated the warmth and care with which he fulfilled his duties, welcoming patrons with a smile as he would shepherd them to the mezzanine; however, some were offput by his unwillingness to extend that same warmth to his fellow ushers. 'Socially autistic,' his manager has reported since news of his passing, 'or at least on the spectrum. He could turn on the charm when he needed to, but saw no need to keep that fire lit once the curtain lifted. He would just step out for a smoke and that was it until intermission. Don't think I ever heard him speak more than three words unrelated to tickets, seating, or bathroom location.'

God's studio apartment in downtown Los Angeles remains untouched. No one knows why; that's just the way things have played out so far. Every few days, or weeks, or months, the landlord will bring in a young couple, looking for a new start, or a tourist off the street, looking to satisfy their morbid curiosity. Each time she brings in a new potential buyer, she finds the room a little grayer, a little dimmer. Details fall away as cabinets unfinish themselves and the crown molding recedes from view. Dust refuses to settle; there is no dust at all. This is true of all rooms without a knower. This is true of all souls.