Revelation says that one day the world will end, and the sky shall be rolled up as if it were a scroll and the true nature of things made plain. It always struck me as a most sinister promise, not because of what it portends for the future—all mortal things end, by definition—but what it means about the present. It augurs that we know nothing of what is true, and yet we are to be judged on our choices and even damned. We walk in deception and must build the most honest world we know, but our efforts shall be to no avail, and in the end, one layer of lies after another must be ripped away, until some final underlying cosmos is shown to be all that ever was. What might we have done differently, had we seen? The divine plan is made in deceit, with dreams piled upon dreams. How could we ever be sure, even seeing it on that final day, that we have reached the centre of the onion? How are we to recognise what is real after being shown falsehood for every instant of our lives? If faith is salvation, should we just pick a lie and love it unto death? Does that mean that a circle of hell, truly embraced, is heaven? Why not, if everything we do is destined to be unravelled anyway? Perhaps I should wish to inhabit my dying son as a sickness, after all. At least then I would be with him at the end, as I have so often desired. A fine razor in the soul, such paradise.