Donald accustomed himself to Sarah's apartment because if he were to have any peace he could not leave it. He noticed the various ways that she had made it her own: a painting by "B. Fowler" that hung over the faux fireplace -- must be a relative; tea lights where the faux logs should be; the home-made-looking quilt draped over the back of the sofa, which she rather boldly placed in the middle of the living room, thereby partitioning off a small dining area -- the quilt had scenes of bravery undertaken by small big-headed children; zebra and tiger figurines on the mantle, and a porcelain vase with blue silk roses -- a reference to The Glass Menagerie? -- a crocheted plant holder in the bathroom that looked like a toilet, out of which spiralled a spirited yellow-green ivy.
This was Sarah's apartment. This was not Donald's apartment. Donald felt the same way about the world. This was someone else's world. He was just crashing. His intense feelings of God were like a lifeline to another world, they revealed that other world right here in this one, like an invisible redecoration that shouted out, "This is Donald's world!"
He walked across the blue Persian-looking throw rug towards the sunlight flooding the dining area. This was God's hand that could hold you in its fist or punch you into eternity. One was ever at the mercy of its twitches.
Donald thought of atheists, and smiled. How they luxuriated in their opinion! How only the abundant grace of God made such a viewpoint possible! They were like that king who ordered the sun to rise every morning.
Some atheism, and most religious intolerance, was just a quibble over words. Not God but Universe. Not God but Goddess. You must give God the secret password -- Jesus -- as if God were too dimwitted to understand who Shiva is, who Buddha is! As if God had a limited vocabulary and we must condescend to Him in order to get the Grand Prize Jackpot!
So few realized that God is right here, right now, comprehending perfectly things you don't even say, and throwing flowers at your feet. Donald desperately needed those flowers.
Object: conversation