His dwelling is filled with the dust of past miracles. It flows in through the keyhole and under the door and is stored as wind and weather, as salt and sorrow and dust. He worries about the smaller gods, they are merry and irresponsible, they have forgotten their destiny and so they are anmiable of purpose. He tries to keep them in order. Night after night he sits entering them in thin endless ledgers, name upon name, with a slightly quivering hand. He recreates them in solemnity and in writing. The lamp over his desk burns into the night as he attempts to repair defect little gods. They fill him with deep melancholy and a sense of meaninglessness that he will not admit to. He remembers everything the lesser gods prefer to forget and this wears him out; he grows haggard, with dark circles under his eyes. He takes their education in hand, he gives them maps of the heavens with adjoining regions, and provides them with an inventory of the universe. At full moon he sings to them, the old songs forgotten by the smaller gods. They make faces and yawn. The weary old god gathers his last strength and starts over again.