I was much troubled by all Ezekiel had said, and I still had many questions and doubts. So I went to the abstract sculpture by the Albertson’s and said to Ezekiel, "Look here, you and the rest of the bums stand by this sculpture all day and drink beer, while the rest of the world toils and toils. Is it any wonder that they have an abundance of Prana, while you have so little? You are the one who begs them for money; they are the ones who give it to you. If it weren’t for people like you, they would only be richer. And look at me. I don’t have a job; I sit in my apartment all day in my underwear and toss things at the walls. Do I, then, deserve an overabundance of Prana?" Ezekiel said to me, "It is good for you to doubt me; you ought not to believe me just because I say it is so. Certainly if you did you would be one of the fools who believe any old thing any prophet says, and would go down to your destruction. I will answer all your questions, but first I must walk off the buzz I have; I have had too much beer, and need a little walk to get some of it out of my system." I said to him, "You are nothing but a drunkard," and he said to me, "You are right: I am nothing but a drunkard. So let us walk so that I may clear my head." We walked to Washington Park. All the way there Ezekiel only made petty comments about how attractive all the old, urban houses looked. When we got to the park we walked around the main pond three times. Athletes on bicycles rode quickly circling the wide loop about the pond, and others jogged or walked with dogs or children. "Look at all these people," said Ezekiel. "Each is a story and tale more poignant than any novel or film." "Well most of their stories will never be told," I said. "They will die and be forgotten." "Does a novel need a reader to be great?" he said. "Is it great only if someone reads it and says of it, ‘It is great’?" "Yes," I said. "Let me tell you a story," said Ezekiel. "There was once an urban recluse who wrote a novel—he worked on it all his life, and then died. It was a great novel—the greatest of the century, or even greater. When he died his niece took up his manuscript and read it. ‘This is nonsense,’ she said, and threw it in the trash. It was never read by anyone else. Soon, the man was forgotten, his novel was gone, and no one ever heard of him at all." "Then his novel wasn’t great," I said. "But that isn’t the end of the story," said Ezekiel. "For the angels knew of this man, knew his novel and its greatness. They performed dramas based on his life, and he was much romanticized and honored. The man himself never knew this, nor did any human. But his novel was great after all." "Then it was because of the angels that it was great," I said. "But what I told you about the angels was a lie," said Ezekiel. "The man’s novel needed the angels as little as it needed other humans to be great;

for there is a silent witness

to every life, doing nothing

but knowing that life.

This comforts those in pain,

for the pain becomes shared;

and increases the joy of those who sing,

because the joy becomes common."