Mirth is worth it worth its wait in bosons, as birth is worse for where. War pays threepence in weeds. This the one they call Jesus is said to have said when pretending to be dead.
Turned out it was a fatal flaw in his transmission, his unassuming tendency to balk up in the crux, to go beyond the primordial in all his trappings, to go so far as to to wash the feet of the followers.
Every night in bed he thinks of her assets, trying to mesmerize her feet. She was the slightest boned woman in a hundred miles. He had the proof in the photos. One hundred proof.