Man suspects the heavens created man. The angels agree, and angels find that idea in the Library. I visited the Library, when that foreign compulsion sometimes arose, but I noticed the others would often sneer, even call the Library and its scripture "bible school." I consider them as I sail inches past the edge of the purple Pacific and reach a hard stop. A rural people's city is beyond the spruce trees. A couple of months ago, the heavens ushered me on a raft four feet above sea level with a pike and helmet, alongside other boats, with the intention we battle opposing angels.
I dare not venture into town center, so I hike to a home. The lopsided bench lining the wall is a reminder of the culture home had. Handiwork, after all, is imperfect and warm. Daniela, a friend, strung a string hat like that based on a human's. I adorn it, although it limps since before any archers armed, row to row. I sit on the bench, but I then find the front door and knock.
A tired, elderly man punches the door open, sending me some steps back. He sneers, "Last thing I want is an angel! All the craze here. Sick of 'em; sick of the oh-so-great solicitors. Can't help you people." I say, swollen from war and stiff, "I am here for myself. I desire rest, sir." He tilts his head and steps back too.