Gazing fixedly into the space between his palms and fingers, he imagined he saw a faint light, like dust glowing in a shaft of sunlight.
Somehow, he knew, he was creating something. Something strange and wonderful and marvelous. Something miraculous.
He was creating worlds within the cathedral like space of his cupped palms and steepled fingers.
Yes! There were worlds--suns and planets and moons--all whirling away in a dizzying dance in the confinement of his hands--and he had created it all!
How could this be? he wondered. How had he accomplished this? Without even thinking about it, he had created his own tiny universe, and held it in his hands.
But how to hold onto this? That was the question; that was the problem. What could he used to enclose that which he had created? Would it fit into a box? Could he lock it in his wall safe?
As he sat agonizing over his problem, his wife called suddenly from another part of the house.
"Dinner's ready, John. Come on and eat!"
Her words startled him so that he jerked his hands apart.
And his newly-created universe was ripped apart; exploded/imploded in a tiny poof!--and was gone as though it had never existed.
Oh, well, he thought. If I can do it once, I can do it again.
He got up and went to dinner. He would certainly try again later that evening.