It was the biggest thing he’d ever done.  Standing over the carcass in the snow and staring into the blankness of the eye that looked back up at him he saw the enormity of the cosmos.  It’d all been summoned by his right index finger.   He looked down at it, the glove removed from his hand, and he slowly moved it back and forth, up and down, and he got down on his knees, still staring at his right index finger, the all powerful and omnipotent, master of even time and space.  It had made time stop and stand still, and he watched his finger and waited for it to give some indication that time could start again.  Then he felt the icy November wind blow in his face, and it reminded him that your finger might be master of time and space, but I am the wind, and I am blind and cold and unfeeling, and your finger is just a finger, nothing more, and life is only life, and death is only death, but I am perpetual and unending.