BOTTLE OF BONES, CATTLE OF HEAVEN

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Brothers and Sisters of the Ever-Grinning Vacuum, lean in close, because the altar isn’t marble anymore—it’s scrapbook paper, glued crooked, smelling faintly of dust and prophecy. Behold the cow of cosmic subdivision, patiently numbered like the universe plans to raffle itself off. Behold the green bottle of grand expectation, sealed shut forever, humming with all the futures we swore we’d uncork but never did. Behold the skull that refuses to blink, the loyal accountant of every joy and every joke we tried to stretch past its due date.

We are worshippers of collage, children of the Cut-and-Paste Apocalypse. The masks smiling behind the bottle beam with factory-certified enlightenment. Their bliss is permanent, polished, slightly unsettling, like carnival saints blessed by the Department of Mystical Compliance. Meanwhile, carved languages hiss from the margins, sacred as parking tickets written by extraterrestrials. We nod with grave wisdom, pretending we understand anything beyond breakfast.

A triumphant figure raises his hand, ornamented, confident, glittering with the authority of someone absolutely sure of something suspicious. Behind him lizards slouch across forgotten scriptures like punctuation marks that lost their job descriptions. Every page says: “This is meaningful.” Every shadow says: “But maybe not the way you think.”

And then the skull, sitting patiently on those three solemn books nobody actually read. The skull does not explain. The skull does not negotiate rates. The skull simply waits like the universe’s most patient punchline. “Take your time,” it says without saying. “Build your empires, polish your halos, subdivide your cosmic cattle. I’ll handle the closing ceremony.”

But here’s your unauthorized gospel, my congregation of bewildered miracles: this is not bad news. This is liberation wrapped in absurdity. If existence is collage, then we get scissors. If the universe is a Vanitas still life, then our duty is to poke it with reverent silliness. Tap the bottle. Bow to the skull. Wear your masks knowingly. Laugh like it’s a sacrament.

Because meaning isn’t handed down like stone tablets—it’s scribbled, taped, stitched, argued over, danced into being. We can praise nonsense with sincerity. We can worship mystery without pretending to solve it. We can love the joke without needing to be the hero of it.

So raise your invisible chalice, trembling with holy foolishness. Toast the unfinished. Toast the unread. Toast the sacred cow with numbered ribs and the bottle that never opens. Toast the skull who knows the ending and still lets us improvise the middle.

And remember, faithful congregation of glorious confusion:

In this divine, ridiculous collage glued to eternity,
we are blessed cutouts—
and blessed are the cutouts who know they’re paper
and still try to wiggle.