We gathered beneath it, dozens becoming hundreds, staring up at the spreading cracks in the firmament. Some held hands, some wept.

This is what happens when worlds collide.

When He made the firmament, he made it fine and thin. The worlds spun upon wheels perfect and inviolate, separate in their bounds. An efficient craftsman – no need to build a strong wall where the finest coat of celestial plaster would do.

But when He died, or wandered off, or became senile – whatever it was that caused Him to leave (and he left so many ages ago, it has been millennia since anyone heard His voice from a flaming bush or saw Him appear in a cloud) – who was there to maintain the works?

We stand beneath the wound, staring at the cracking sky; we do not know which world fell off its track and careened into our own, but we can see the result. The glowing silver eggshell cracks in the universe spreading out from the point of impact, the whisper of the leaking wind around us.

We hope, and pray, and wait.