...combed his hair with a wagon wheel.

I was recently at the edge of the world. It's at the tip of Vermont where a long gravel drive bottoms out at a snowmobile track and a redbearded Titan stands sentinel and grins, catching those that wander. His watchdogs are beavers and geese and his children are the eastern cousins of the Alaskan lights.
It's dangerous there. Not in the way you might think. But I kept feeling that at any moment the earth would crack in the brittle cold and I would fall upwards, past his frying pan hands, through the clouds and cutout trees.

The old gods still exist. They're just disguised in red leather Nascar coats.