D.G. Geis No telling what He thinks—or if. His ears, a zillion light years wide, pressed to the fizzy heart of the universe, a hydrogen gasbag folded in on itself like table napkins on the Hindenburg, an omelet, or a quantum quesadilla. What we call spiral galaxies, He calls soup and sandwiches. What we call supernovas, He calls shoe polish. What we call black holes, He calls a paycheck. What we call space, He calls the barstool. What we call the Big Bang, He calls Louise. It’s why the sun’s so hysterical and the moon so matter of fact….