The fact that I cannot see the stars is hampering my calculations. I can compensate some by listening closely to the tick-tick-tick of certain strange, low frequency ions that radiate from those stars relevant to His cause. However, there are inconsistencies in the mathematics that I cannot account for.
At the highest levels of chaos theory, all strange probabilities become likely.
First I reach for a mind, a fresh sentient life force to take the edge off my fast. The first I sense is heavy with cancers, praying for an end to conciousness. His anguish is hot and sour, but I drink it in greedily. Turgid brown liquid fills my cavities; it swells and expands to the limit of my conciousness. It is not enough for me to rise through this cursed dead damp earth, but I can at least smack my lips and crave further.
The next I sense is purer, a savory cornucopia of pulsing essence-one life draped in another like a burial shroud, adrift in amniotic fluid. It has a refreshing fizz to it-like a newly uncorked champagne, and like champagne it brings a sensation of warmth, of zest. Slowly it stops moving, the spark gone dim. If all the variables are accounted for properly, it will be three days before the mother goes to the doctor to ask why he is so still.
My hands-my good strong hands!-begin to pry at the dirt above me. The insistent chittering grows louder, in anticipation. My work is outside of time; I do not even follow it's progress. Only up, up into the cursed light of YHVH. My erudite master pulses hard in my thoughts, my lungs, my throbbing death cock.
I can taste air now. A little starlight is starting to show through.