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There is a story of a man wandering through the ruins of a fallen house, coming upon an old man sitting in a chair in a corner. This man is ancient, beaten down, broken from time. The pain of existence has written lines across every part of his face, burned endurance through suffering deep into his eyes.
The wanderer asks the old man who he is and why he is here. The old man barely stirs in response, lifting his bowed head only slightly to speak, replies: I am God. And I am utterly exhausted.
I take odd comfort from this tale, a portion from the presence of deity, but that seems slight in comparison to the sense of endurance. That if God could survive the creation of such a hell as this earth is, then there is hope.