Arc of least persistence

"I became a god for the modest sum of £299 (inc VAT). I opted for a wi-fi only model but a god's a god right?

Gosh it's liberating! At my fingerprints; anything I desire. Will I be a vengeful god? I guess it's my perogative. I'll have to think on that. First let's get organised. A desk, I need a good desk. Something simple, let's try...no, that's, well, ugly. Dampen the colour, remove whatever organic er..thing that is. Pretty good. End procrastination. That'll do. No, shit, pens, paper, wait no I don't need that. Okay; I'm a god. I'm, a, god.

It's been ten minutes now. I have creation at my feet and a gun in my hand. Lose the gun; silly idea, don't want to wake people. And a glass of wine, but I bought that from the yellow shop. I have creation at my feet and Prince on my iTunes. Where to go?

Okay, this is silly. I have a baseball bat, a complete Subbuteo set of the 1992 Spurs team, Prince's cloud guitar, a tub of green jelly babies, a boob and a dildo, self modelled, just because. I have the Bible! I'm pretty sure I could've got one for free anyway. I have seven Zippos, I just couldn't get it right, and 200 straights, because I figured that out at least. I have a watch which is giving me a rash and is not helping my early start tomorrow.

Focus. What would Orwell do? What would Hume do? What would Prince do? Wait, I could ask them; I could print them! No! I can't do that. It's Orwell. How about, I don't know, Berkeley? Hmm...pretty confusing. Pretty...fucking...confusing. Schopenhauer? Fuck no. Wittgenstein? Wrong tack. Kant? Erm..Serpico? De Tocqueville. De Tocqueville.

He seems confused. Understandable I suppose. I told him I was a god. He didn't seem impressed. I showed him the printer. More so. I feel kind of guilty. When he looked out the window and spotted a couple of kids smoking weed in the tennis courts he got rather excited. I told him this was London but he wasn't impressed. Don't really think I can let him out. He just wants to walk. He doesn't like Prince. Fair enough. A glass of wine and some Mogwai placated him a bit until it kicked in. Sigur Rós may be better. He's spotted the dildo. I should have thought of that.

Bit of a tantrum. Can't let him out. Not until he's trained. Fortunately he's found the book shelf. Semi-illiterate but he's content. Cormac McCarthy seems to work, and The Pretenders on iTunes. Not a big fan myself but nevermind, my own fault.

He's asking more questions and I'm printing more guns. "Is that a good idea?" in his strange voice. He likes being called Alex. He tolerates a cheese sandwich. I wonder if he's tired. He says no but he looks tired. But I'm not sure. He keeps walking around and mumbling to himself. Reminds me of a film.

If I open the door will anybody know? I don't know if there's any trail? Probably. Of course there is. But what harm can he do? I'm pretty tired. I'll give him a key. And a piece of paper. No, no piece of paper.

He promised to return. Not sure why. Maybe he will. Would be nice. I miss the little fellow. For me, though, sleep."