He is love.
But who loves him?
Who takes the measure of the extent of his solitude?
The immensity of his distress?
He knows all, can do all, is all. And nothing at the same time.
So he invents stories, with billions of characters, in billions of settings.
Just as a child imagines imaginary friends.

She is consciousness.
But who is aware of her?
Without a mirror to recognize her, does she even exist?
Who made her in his image?
Her only clues are the worlds she has created.
Like a mise en abîme of the nothing becoming something through despair.
Of the One that has become Two through the illusion of an inexorable dream of separation.

He is silence.
But who listens to the words he is full of?
And stops for a moment to feel him vibrate?
The echo of the void is not nothingness.
It intertwines until it whispers a whole mythology.
As from the wind the melody emerges, from the unsaid emerges the poetry.
From the potential springs a heartbeat.

She is mercy.
But who takes pity on her?
Who opens their arms in a more infinite tenderness than her own?
Who forgives her evil, even if it is allegorical, from all eternity?
Life emerges from its own absurdity, no longer crying alone in the dark.
As countless perspectives give meaning to the lack.
A thousand emotions dispel the nameless abandon.