The End of Mr. Y

by Scarlett Thomas

I felt a bit like part of a huge box of chocolates, with the browns, creams, golds, and reds of the vast paintings seeming to melt around me. Perhaps Burlem and I were the hard centres that no one was interested in.

Curiosity’s crooked finger beckoned me further.

the sky is the color of sad weddings.

What if it isn’t God? What if the success of prayer actually reveals something about the power of thought? Can thought actually influence matter?