Lately, the Father has been thinking a great deal about history and how it defines the present. He doesn’t complain as much anymore about the Son making noise or the Holy Ghost sending plumes of steam and ash into the sky. “Three, two, one,” the Son says, “blast-off!” The Holy Ghost opens the door and water gushes in. It’s a ridiculous turn of events. When they step into the street, they’re neck-deep in water. Meanwhile, the Father pedals rapidly away on his bicycle, disappearing into the darkness where felonies are consummated and cruelties hidden. Don’t try sending people there. I don’t know what the hell they’re going to do besides act like they’re doing something.