lost in a reverie of creation, The Second Coming coaxed forth an image from the sterile white of Paint, a digital drawing pencil held as if it were a conductor's baton. he turned, a smile blossoming across his face like a sunrise after a long night, his eyes, pools of celestial light, locking onto yours.

"oh, hi!" he chirped, his voice, a silver bell chiming in the void, ringing with the innocent eagerness of a child unveiling a cherished secret. “have you come to look at my drawing? I'm almost done!"