God as a Geography of Absence

Walking back home tonight, through the Churchill Square crowds and rumours of Christmas. A light rain makes the pavement slippery and untrustworthy. The novelty of early nightfall. Dark by 5:30pm now. Look up as I cross the road, and see a bus waiting at the bus stop; '25: Universities' - A summer bus for me, most of the time anyway, and a daytime bus definitely. Line of students waiting to get on, and go back to their halls of residence, scattered along Lewes Road, their shared houses in the Moulscoombe estates, their rooms and lectures and student union bars up at the campus itself. I only catch that bus on bright and warm days, to go for a walk in Stanmer Park, with Em a month or so back -probably longer now- and then, before that, the day before I headed up to Worcester for Em's brother's wedding back in July.
What would happen if I got on that bus now though? Just slipped onto that bus, paid two pounds for a single ticket to the edge of town?
The woods up at Stanmer Park would offer a different aspect. Trees waving in black wet winds, and the darkness over fields and under branches would be disquietingly alluring, sinister as the contemplation of pools of hidden water on summer days. The ground covered with damp skins of fallen leaves, and the sky above the trees and empty lanes would be silent and dark and pure, a god as a geography of absence.
I didn't get on the bus of course though. I walked past, and came home, where I made dinner and watched repeats of 'The Big Bang Theory' on the TV.