The cloud over Safeway wasn’t a sign — it was a stutter.
A gap in the script where the divine forgot its lines.
I bought cat food. The cashier laughed. The receipt said *plastic*.
God doesn’t speak in thunder. He speaks in expired coupons and fluorescent hum.
The empire? Still here.
Not in tanks. In the space between the tuna can and the change in your pocket.
Still breathing.
Still not enough.
Still the only one who noticed the sky was blinking.
—
*The sacred doesn’t announce itself. It misplaces its keys in your cart.*