Half of us wish the angels would stay forever.  Half want them
to  leave  now.  Both factions admit that angels hold mirrors to
the abyss inside us.  We too hover just above despair.  They are
winged, is all, and more beautiful. Being eternal, they tell fewer
stories.  We  are  narrative  little  mortals;  there  are  hours  of
argument  while  angels  drift  past  the  auditorium  windows,
creating patches of bright  and  dim light,  derailing  trains  of
thought.  Voices crackle and grow weary over the microphone,
but no one calls a vote. We have no power over them, a woman
says,  so  perhaps  they  have  no  power  over  us. We lead one
another into the evening haze—our  angels  have  gathered  to
watch us disassemble.