Fiat lux! said the Lord. And the cosmos started creating itself. As light spread far and wide, it nearly chased the primordial chaos out of its impregnable sovereignty. That's what the books claim.
Mull it over. Cock around a seeing eye. See to see, with a little help from the poets' poet Emily Dickinson.
Voila! The chaos not only persists in the cosmos but threatens, with awesome consumer confidence, the power-poor autarky of light. Frequent load-shedding erodes the morale. Farmers commit suicide. Students pore over ill-lit books while a solitary candle flickers with a low, dirty-yellow flame. On the invisible dance floor, luminous ballerinas fumble and stumble on account of severe gout. The prima donna is down with AIDS.
In the biosphere of the agnostic, the first sound worth hearing is the Gasp! of the baby as soon as it proclaims in a loud yell its freedom from the balloon of the amniotic fluid inside the mother. Few musicologists or sound engineers have studied the amplitude, the tone, and the diaphragmatic vitality, with which the baby mewls and pukes and cries in a series of crescendos and diminuendos. Call it a miracle, and you are insinuating a mediator. God? Nature? Chance? Who?
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