I sent back the angels you sent me and bought a pile of bones. From it, I
built my own angels. Heavy and without wings, they stay put and shadow
no one. I always know where to find them. I gave them common names
and expected nothing from them. If one dared lift a sword of fire, I would
steal it and send him to heaven, disarmed and ashamed. Let God concern
Himself with such a traitor.
My angels are made of bones. They laugh out loud when anyone mentions
the soul. They are not the least bit religious. When they get sad, they drink
and fight amongst themselves. They have no time for human dramas.
Every so often, their sadness is too much to bear. That’s when I visit and
remind them of the reason for their existence. You are here to make me
feel less lonely, I tell them, and they perk up. Some of them attempt to fly.
No, I tell them, that’s not your job. But we are angels, they say, and I’m
forced to watch as, thinking they are about to please me, they fail to reach