He's staring at me, right through my window.
He thinks I don't see Him, but I do. I'm sitting in my living room, on my laptop, the only sound being the hamster spinning in his wheel, and now His face is just peeking through my window like a neighbor wondering if he could borrow a cup of sugar.
It's like looking at a full moon on a cloudless night. In the dark, He glows a bright yellow, and its effects are both eerie and somewhat soothing if you have no idea what He's doing.
But I know.
Because I hear this voice in my head, telling me to come out. “Come out,” it tells me, “come to me.” I never knew He could talk to you, but apparently He can.
I don't move. I just sit in my chair, laptop in my lap, glass of wine next to me, and I stare back. Stare Him down. My eyes don't leave His face, and His head tilts in that curious fashion, as though He finds me an odd specimen.
I feel like I'm staring right at the lion that wants me for dinner. Now I can understand why so many people fear Him; He has that kind of effect on people. Again and again, I can hear that voice in my head, saying the same thing over and over and over: “Come to me. Come out.”
And every single time I just mentally-and verbally- send Him the same retort: