Sometimes I Thinksometimes I question God. . .I suppose my mind is blasphemous that way.when Im feeling particularly conceited,i tell myself the world is his art.every human life-like a fragile butterfly in his clever hands.or fireworks.a flash of light-a burst of wonder-an explosion of wild allure-and then darkness, the beauty still imprintedin his all-seeing corneaslike the mournful tracks of a teardrop.other times, when my heart is fullof morbid processes and angry words,i hiss and growl and spit my fury,cursing that name so revered.what gives me the right?he did, I suppose.an angry child builta place grander than he realizes,Then forgets us to fade in the dark.He doesnt care.he has no concern,for such fleeting beasts as us.I ask, how can a king, so supposedly grand,condemn a good man to fire-because he has not heard the name?No!but mostly I just wonder. . .are you there?who are you?artist?Killer?something else?