Michael Shannon.

He went to the old sideboard, stained as it was, a few wood chips missing here and there and leaning on it momentarily, he slipped into his right front pants pocket and he drew a key. Fumbling a little with the little piece of brass on the faded purple ribbon he inserted it and slipped the lock and from inside he retrieved the small brassbound wooden box graven with its vague mystical symbols and carefully set it on the cabinet top. With trembling hands, not by age but by emotion, he reverently untied the ribbon that held it shut and with care beyond care he opened it and released, the wonderful soul within that rose and floated as dainty as a butterfly above and for all to see. It shimmered in the light and was God.

For a friend.