God was born on a Tuesday. They saw the future and it made them angry, for they hated parables and umbrellas. A great wind came from their nostrils. A sea, all the people weary. The daffodil consoled God momentarily until the wind came again. Their favorite genre, God thought, was the portrait, for gender was dead. Nose would mean portrait, lie, penis, anger, futurity, patience. Nose would finally mean breath.