Gods have problems with identity, too. No better than us they have midlife crises run out drive a brand new hot red myth cycle get a few mortals pregnant with half-human monster-devas who grow up to be game show hosts ask themselves in the long terrible confusion of their personal centuries who am I, really? what does any of it mean? I’m so afraid someday everyone will see that I’m just an imposter a fake among all the real and gorgeous godheads. The trickster god of silent films knew of itself only: I am a mouse. I love nothing.
