a snatch of story that will probably never be continued
Y'see, the thing about angels, they don't have any creativity. They just can't, y'know, imagine things. So they're dependent on us, entirely, they want to make all this beautiful art but all they can do is copy us. I mean, you get to Heaven, right? You get to Heaven and you expect to see glorious marble arches and temples the size of cities but all you get is this stitched-together pastiche of your half-forgotten memories. There's the bus stop you took to go to work, and right next to it is that old bookstore you always meant to go into, and jammed in next to that is the cafe where that cute girl spilled soup in your lap. And there's an angel standing there, all ten feet and halo and six glowing wings, looking plaintively at you, like, is this good? Did I do it right this time? Is this beautiful?
Like kickin' a puppy, I swear. Anyway, that's why we all left.