God is dying on a live stream. God is dying in a steel and glass and concrete amphitheater. The audience watches from seats divided into cubicles by walls of varying paints and sizes. Some watch in bedrooms and living rooms and offices. Some watch behind the immaterial walls of cities and towns. But all sit comfortably. Some are fat in body. Some are fat in mind. But all are soft. It's been generations since any have had the strength to carve themselves into the granite caves that housed their ancestors. It's been generations since hands have been bloodied without anger.
This is an audience of aging children: the children of wanderers. The old people of the forests and plains and coasts walked with purpose and direction, lived and died with purpose and direction. But their descendants wander in cities larger than the old worlds. We fear neither monsters nor beasts nor even the night. Our cold torches stole the stars from the sky. And through plastic faces, with electric eyes, we watch God die.