The Glibman Building takes a long time to burn, but it looks very pretty as it does. Robert quit his job this morning, and now he stands in the street, watching the sparks swallow the ninth floor windows and thinks of the sunlight hitting the red and yellow stained glass in the windows of the church that his grammy used to take him to on Sunday mornings when he was eight or seven years old. Robert doesn’t have a god delusion, because you can only be deluded when you’re believing something that isn’t true. Also, he doesn’t think he’s God. Robert has a Prometheus delusion. Somewhere in his apartment, thirty-seven blocks away, the phone rings. The chief hasn’t found Robert’s letter of resignation yet, even though it sits in plain view in a puddle of lighter fluid, on the floor of the main entrance to the fire station.

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