The angel was no more than an embroidery, scurrying along a cloth tunic, trying to escape the wearer. A prized possession, bundled in naivety, to kept unspoiled until he might be torn from paradise. Paradise? He cried one final time for help, for his brothers to please wake up, to take his hands and pull him away from the God, from paradise, to hold him to their chests and pepper sunny kisses onto his cheeks, to protect him. From paradise. Paradise, what is paradise, whose paradise, paradise for who, paradise for the angels? Paradise for who?
