PrometheusThey say he gave us all these things: days and nights in sequence, number, order, the understanding of words and winds, of cloven hooves and the whispered outbreath of slit-bellied sheep -- the power to conceive of tomorrow. They say he gave us fire, and for that, he was crucified. I am told he loved us more then even himself, and knew, full well, the price of that love. And, still, he gave us fire. Aeschylus taught how harsh are the gods, who, being immortal, grow bored, amuse themselves with cuckoldry, rape, and the subtle sadism of omnipotent imagination, how for the curse of Cadmus, Antigone was sealed, alive, in her tomb. So, it seems there was no Resurrection, not even expiatory death, only the slow embers of vendetta. And we, the earthmade, fire-fed favourites of the Son, tell each other that some Father sent him down and raised him up, and loves us, and forgives us. And we continue numbering and ordering, writing and divining, slitting the bellies of bulls and men, to equal purpose, and even, proudly, playing with fire.