Cleanliness is the next thing to godliness, they say. I keep myself clean. Brush my teeth, search my body. This takes a lot of time. I have a large body, deep lines, long stretches of flatlands, promontories and hills, a whole geography to scrub and rub. I do not care for the inhabitants. I send them earthquakes and tidal waves, landslides and floods. I pelt them with hail and lava bombs. Geysers of burning water erupt from the pores of my skin. At dawn, cities made from dead skins are swabbed away in a wash of perfumed alcohol. Ruins everywhere, populations fleeing in terror from my gratuitous, refreshing war. And slowly, I emerge, my morning self built anew after the annihilation of daily grime. The welcoming sun shines on me through the window slats, oblivious of the devastation below. I always leave the bathroom in a state of