I have the same birthday as Helen Hunt and, I believe, Dean Martin. This is not what I actually want to talk about.

I want to make a film where I’m writing all my questions and crying all my tears into this one piece of paper that I let dry out and make an airplane out of.

I fold it carefully, carefully, ever so carefully
I make that one that always won
the contests back when we were little
I give it a toss up to the sky
The winds take the wings and lift it high
Till it hits the roof of the Universe and a hand reaches through, pulling it out of sight.

I wait for an hour or even a day, but after not too long I look up and see the face of God. He’s crying and his tears fall into the bowl, a cloud. It fills and it spills out in one large tear and falls down, splash on the tired earth. The chapped and dry desert has flowers again and all wandering people including myself hear a voice in our souls saying “Here I am… Right here. Come to me.”

I just can’t hear anymore.

God. God. God. God! I only want to hear.