If the mind is one of those Piranesi prisons, she said, full of darkly nested architectural redundancies—as we know the human brain is, with its neurons like ropes slung precariously from cell to cell, and interrupted spiral staircases going neither up nor down, and ruined stone lions hinting at some tapestried past when all this was a brighter castle—then God, for lack of a better word, and after all these centuries we do lack a better word, at least in English, then God is a cricket somewhere in that oppressively expansive complexity, or really just the cricket’s song stuck in your head, and it is up to you now, as the torches gutter, to find out where that cricket’s song is coming from so you can stomp it and go back to sleep
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