The heart of the great scientist had beat its final defiance. The ganglionic sparks had begun their exodus from the bland greyness confined to the mind which the world had so treasured.

Their energy encountered an embrace beyond description.

“So what’s this crap about me not existing?” the Creator posed.

Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. He even finds it on occasion. And sometimes he barges in on subjects a tad too soon… where angels fear to tread.