Our dead and decent god, who was a workman, a casuist, a secular man, who was so sad to make this wood-like, bony cage…could offer up from his humble bench only the crudest form of protection for the heart; he was subject to probability. And god, being god, and therefore not knowing of himself, was not spared his own provenance, and nature, and died when run over by an ox-cart outside his workshop. The cart was pulled by a horse so burdened by its inappropriate vehicle, so gripped by its fear of fault in the accident, that it died, too, while being whipped by its furious driver. The driver, who was confounded by being the murderer of god, was equally confounded to discover god was not only a man, but, by his very nature, a victim. Shocked and enraged by this calamitous situation, and overcome with the most fearsome form of guilt, the driver of the oxcart murdered his horse, flogging it until it died while lying in the muddy street. Afterwards the driver went to a brothel, where he refused to even look at a prostitute, and sat in a dark booth where, consumed by guilt and self-loathing, he drank himself to death by downing bottle upon bottle of vodka, until his head fell on his chest and he had a heart attack. And thus, in this earthly telling, the legacy of our decent god was clear: a ribcage, violence, and guilt.