[ OT ] Does it seem like all writing prompts have become the same ?

I looked away from the laptop screen, my eyes strained from reading. I paused a moment, my fingers poised above the keys, ready to unleash the fury of snark on an unsuspecting internet. The person had a point. 
 
 Why did every post contain a reference to god. Why could n't we, as a species, quit it already? 
 
 Even in an atheist world consumed with materialism, on a message board where you gained respect for how much disdain you treated religion with... people could not let go of the concept of God. 
 
 I closed my laptop and placed it aside. Pausing only to grab my fedora I left my apartment and started to wander the streets. What was it about the concept of god that even the most virulent, autistic atheist still preferred their fiction to have a spiritual flavor? 
 
 The night fog had began to set in and my foot steps sounded hollowly on the pavement. The smell of stale alcohol, fetid piss, car exhaust... the scent of humanity's collective triumphant assaulted me. The monotonous, drab buildings, stone and steel shaped to the minds of men decorated the dim city. All of it so sterile, so lifeless. I paused as I passed a mosiac painted on a wall. It was meant to bring color to the dullness, life to the lifeless city but all it did was remind of me of the emptiness of human creation. Divine creation gave us a universe of flowers and bees, morning sun glancing of rolling waves upon the ocean, the song of the nightingale... was that the answer? 
 
 I paused to consider, leaning against a wall I pulled out an unfinished cigar and lit it, looking up at the night sky as I exhaled the tang of tobacco, tried to see the stars. A million little lights placed in the heavens by a God who obviously delighted in delighting us. All of it blanked out by the human need to be constantly busy, to never sleep. 
 
'Give me a drag?' The voice grated on my ears. It was the voice of a throat scorched by too much alcohol, the voice of a spirit cowed from too much begging, the voice of a man broken by life. Shabby coat, threadbare shoes, unshaven, a vagueness to his eyes. Human, splendidly human. 
 
 I smiled at him. A genuine smile. I could not remember my last genuine smile. As I smiled at him it seemed I smiled at myself. 
 
'Its yours.' I said, handing him my still burning cigar. 
 
'Thank you.' He replied. 
 
'Take this too.' I added, handing him my fedora,'I do n't need it anymore. 
 
'God bless you.' He whispered 
 
'He already has.'
