the beggar stoops shoddy in the shards of his clothes, his body the hollowed out gourd of hunger much like his bowl, which each (body and bowl) have been sculpted from the whole with one fine sweep of a sharp implement.
god stands very much like a man with a cast black pot but unlike a man he has no hunger, no yearning, and the pot is not heavy for him. sadly, he turns out three small stones into the beggar's outstretched bowl.
the man doesn't want to be unkind but his stomach rumbles. from his pit of ingratitude (which is really misunderstanding) he says, but god, i'm hungry. i can't eat these stones.
to which god says, i know. i'm sorry. instead, keep them warm. this is to be your life's ambition.
but the beggar is stricken with pain and asks over the roil of his rumbling stomach, but god, are we not speaking the same language? do you not understand me?
to which god answers more quietly but with great love, schizlops.