The angel's eyes slid across the land like oil across glass...Absorbing children and mothers, and sadness, and automobiles and charity with all the same affectation. And the darkness he saw there pleased him more than a little. Like a noonday shadow, like a last breath, like an empty house in autumn...The ambience appealed to his sense of style. It's true, he reflected, that not all angels call one place or the other home. Some hover just above. Some just below. Some are just here to enjoy the show.
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It's specific, yet indefinable, the change. When the figure in clay has a name and comes to be he.
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The angel's eyes slid across the land like oil across glass...
Absorbing children and mothers, and sadness, and automobiles and charity with all the same affectation.
And the darkness he saw there pleased him more than a little.
Like a noonday shadow, like a last breath, like an empty house in autumn...
The ambience appealed to his sense of style.
It's true, he reflected, that not all angels call one place or the other home.
Some hover just above. Some just below. Some are just here to enjoy the show.
Post a Comment