We’re nowhere near as good as the angels I heard singing at the aerie. There are enough of us singing off-key that we could never be considered good, much less perfect like the angels. But all of us singing together—the cults with their greasy amnesty marks, the rival gangs on the suspension cables, the angry freedom fighters, the parents with their kids on their shoulders—that’s a feeling I’ll never forget for as long as I live. However long that will be.
