The more he takes it in, the more he’d swear the whole world is singing to him.
And in the mirror where the sun had been, Jesus now sees the next fifteen years of his life. No more happy-go-lucky desert exploring. No more painting.
He will die nailed to a cross, just like the ones the Roman governor occasionally requires Jesus and his father to build.
“I want to go to the brothel,” Jesus says.
Then he cuts his eyes to the record player in the corner. He says, “Do you like music?”
When the morning comes they go home in the knowledge that they are immortal. Everything will be alright.
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