Camille Pissarro Boulevard Montmarte

Camille Pissarro Boulevard MontmarteClaude Lorrain The Rest on the Flight into EgyptPeter Paul Rubens Virgin and Child
uncertainty of it, the feeling that it might work out all right after all. But it's different for gods. We do know. You know that story about the sparrow flying through a room?"
"No."
"Everyone knows it."
"Not me."
"About life being like a sparrow flying through a room? Nothing but darkness outside? And it flies through the room and there's just a moment of warmth and light?"
"There are "Is something wrong?"
Brutha shook his head. Then he stood up and walked over to Vorbis.
The deacon had drunk water from Brutha's cupped hands. But there was a switched-off quality about him. He walked, he drank, he breathed. Or something did. His body did. The dark eyeswindows open?" said Brutha."Can't you imagine what it's like to be that sparrow, and know about the darkness? To know that afterward there'll be nothing to remember, ever, except that one moment of the light?"No."No. Of course you can't. But that's what it's like, being a god. And this place . . . it's a morgue."Brutha looked around at the ancient, shadowy temple."Well . . . do you know what it's like, being human?"Om's head darted into his shell for a moment, the nearest he was capable of to a shrug."Compared to a god? Easy. Get born. Obey a few rules. Do what you're told. Die. Forget."Brutha stared at him.