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Weekly Contest #317
I give you a pen; you may put it to paper, or like children do, to walls. Wherever its lines touch, a story will have begun. You are the painter of this story, yet you cannot draw the cold of a morning. You can only show it, perhaps with a shivering body, perhaps with a breath rising in the air. I, too, can only tell you of a shivering body and a breath rising in the air. But God is not like that; He can draw, He can paint, He can express Himself through sacred texts. The truth is, man is weak; yet, he can easily erase himself from God's can...
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