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We tumble out of the darkness into brief light, and because we know there is so little time we breathe our moments into magic. We reach for something we have named beauty. We touch each other in a need we have called love. We plan and hope, we dream and dare for those flickering wonders, then go back into the darkness, not finished, still caring, still asking why, or not even being given the chance. And the mourning and the loss ball our souls into fists to strike, not at God, but at the pregnant silence where we think he hides. And that's the joke. Some ancient fool saw in a dream the true face of man, and having no name for such beauty, called it God.