He wakes up at the same time He does every morning and steps out of bed. Groggily He wanders into the bathroom and stares at His countenance in the mirror. Backing up a few steps, He glances at the rest of His body, aged and ageless, average and sublime. He mumbles something to Himself, and then gets on with the business of freshening up.
In the kitchen He pours Himself a cup of coffee. He takes His time drinking it, as He does every morning, and eats some toast as well, to delay the inevitable, as He does every morning.
He steps outside, barefoot and naked, to check the mailbox. Of course, He knows that there will be no mail today, just as there was no mail yesterday, and will be none tomorrow. He always knows, and He knows all. Doesn’t He?
Finally, He gets down to His business. He enters the house and closes the front door behind Him. Entering the laboratory, He dons a pair of white gloves. He picks up His clipboard and reads the first item. He pulls aside one of the many sliding doors, behind which are hundreds of tiny jars. He picks one up and examines its blue-green contents. Opening a hatch on the top, He sticks His finger in and wiggles it.
A hurricane in Kansas.
He replaces the jar and checks the tiny box on His clipboard. He picks up another jar and prods its contents as well.
A single mother in Brazil wins the lottery.
Check. As He picks up a third sample, He sighs deeply. This planet’s ordinarily blue-green complexion is turning a sickening crimson at an alarming rate.
He opens the jar’s hatch, dumps its contents, and fills it to the brim with soapy water. After a few rinses, He places the jar on an empty base. He presses the button labeled BB. He’s been doing this job forever, but starting over never gets any easier.
He puts an X on the clipboard. Someday, He knows He’ll make one that’ll last. Utopia can’t be that elusive, right?
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