When I stopped believing in God I was struck dumb, insensate, reflecting on the kitchen incident. The bathroom incident. The bedroom incident, incipience of useless desire. Memory is a bitch, trotting out trifles while the main thrust of the narrative continues on its way. It’s Darwinian, the back story of my bank account, this globule of spit I want to eject from my mouth. When I stopped believing in God, I was rummaging around in the junk drawer, the jewelry box, the locked safe, for something I needed to proceed. —How to speak of this precisely? Longing is a chandelier made of twine that doesn’t snap, but merely hangs: misery, temps suspendu. I gave up on the dream of omnibenevolence long ago; now someone else is the legal guardian of my body, mind, and soul. My tongue lolls. My divine portion is a liquid lunch, a time-stamped email, a paramilitary parade. When I stopped believing in God, nothing happened. God would have wanted it that way.