135 Rage and Arrogance

With a murmur that proclaims a mild amusement, the Holy One lifts himself a couple of inches into the air, proceeding to float around me like a spectre drifting through the twilight after dusk. As he does, strips of white cloth trail across my hair, snaking across my face in a manner that makes my whole body shiver with unease.

There is no wind in this place, and yet there is a strangely airy quality to his movements, to the ruffles of his robes and the sway of his hair. It is as if his existence alone defies the general laws of physicals, transcending to a form so powerful that even gravity cannot hold it down.

I wonder what other terrifying spectacles he is capable of producing.