i wonder what this woman's life is like. waiting for a radical break from her mundane, day to day existence, always under the ambiguous gaze of God's slow blink security camera, perpetually on the cusp between two worlds, her emotional baggage constantly packed tight and ready to be shipped off to a different cosmos where all of her desires are met, her enemies vanquished and pains alleviated, but just as critically, where all the patience and survival strategies used to keep the secular works at bay are instantly rendered obsolete. certain of her inheritance, on the issue most important to her she's profoundly powerless, having no way to say when the shift will occur, nor any way to count down the days or ration her strength; her inevitable prayers for the day to be sped along on it's course so many letters to the editor printed exactly as received, unread eccept by trolls in the comments section such as myself.

surely the object of her yearning would constitute a special kind of cataclysm for the faithful themselves! how impressed is Godot likely to be with our patience, given that (from his perspective as much as from ours) we didn't really have much of a choice anyway, having sold off our rights and abandoned ourselves to a prison built on cruel hopes and vainglorious posturing. breathless self-assured expectation comes cheap, oh so cheap, and the lack of an opportunity cost to our devotion leaves us grasping at receipts when invoice day comes round. for now there's no more hedging of bets, no more parlaying our potential dividends into actual leverage. god is a casino, and who can say;—once it's time for all the chips to be cashed out and the house credit called in—into what banal, rigamarole hour of wasted day or precarious night we'll stumble, all at once out from that opulent glare of the neons' sweetly deferred promises and premises.