He had his forehead resting on his left forearm atop a library table as he paged through the brightly-colored photographs of a magazine in his lap, lingering over images of a sand-colored city livened up with colorful ornaments.  It was the stark blue sky in them that truly caught his eye:  in some, outer space appeared to begin right above the layer of roofs at the bottom of those photographs.  He felt a scare.  Life was stuffed into such a thin layer between earth and the vast expanse.  (An image of scum left at the bottom of an empty coffee cup flashed his mind.)  He could feel in those photographs the all-pervasiveness of space, in and around everything and nothing:  Was space the inspiration to how an all-everything God was first imagined?  The class bell rang as he was deciding that God must not then reside in simply a heart or mind or soul, but also fill space, or be space.  He closed the magazine and lifted his head off his forearm.  How lucky he was.  The space he lived in was air, and it was breath that kept him alive.  “Was air God?”  That is what he wrote in the back of his notebook before he ran to class, and he never returned to those words again.