Wilson gives an aesthetic examination of the ways in which humanity has tried to make sense of this overwhelming carnival ride of a world.
Let the pages flick your thumbs..
His novel.
His play.
Welcome to His poem. . .
Through Him were all things made .
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.
And there\'s someone behind it; there are uncomfortable answers to the hows and whys and whats.
It is full of conflict and darkness like every good story, a World of surprises and questions to explore.
I love it as it is, because it is a story, and it isn\'t stuck in one place.
This World is beautiful but badly broken. . .
The kind with people who kill and people who love and people who do both . . .
The kind of place with tiny, powerfully jawed mites assigned to the carpets to eat my dead skin as it flakes off .
The kind where water in the sky turns into beautifully symmetrical crystal flakes sculpted by artists unable to stop themselves (in both design and quantity).
The kind with flamingos (real and artificial).
The inhabited kind.
The moist kind.
The spinning kind.
What is this World? What kind of place is it? The round kind.
He takes a thought-provoking look at everything from quantum physics to the problems of evil, evolution, and hell.
Wilson gives an aesthetic examination of the ways in which humanity has tried to make sense of this overwhelming carnival ride of a world
