A thousand gods under the cricket moons couldn't even save one little bit... (salvation is the enemy of a violet world) the same lame-*** gods that made us educated and civilized.
Why not a cosmic birdbath or eternal blissful garden that happy children frolic in amongst springy damp Bermuda grass and Birch trees that shine like a trillion flawless diamonds, almost as beautiful, at dawn when lightly frosted?
Regardless, days like these i wake up full of vigor, dreamy-eyed, complacent, full of longing, but still glad our gods are dead.