excerpt of the grey welkin, angel's perspective in the celestial kingdom

    I peer down at beings like you and suddenly I remember the landslides that parted, the native tusks of moss crawling up bald cypress trunks. I smell the hot in the depth and cool at the top. Even the eldest of trees have gone replaced by infantile sticks supported by chain link fenses. But still something outside of you reminds me of the inside of before. Pinewoods forests in the Swedish alps, branches dripping with frozen dew. The eoritc smell of crushed gooseberries and most of all I think of the persistence of the blue whales, their deficiency for survival, but still they sing from the deep. Time is way too short for the soul to serve it’s full ability. It looks to me like a place of skyscrapers, monuments with metal walls and so many cement trails topped with a pulsing lifeline of traffic. These buildings compete with each other for a taller age, but regardless they’re all wrecked and replaced at some point. Now it get’s interesting. Now then never before I watch lights that never dull at any cycle of the moons shade. Your Home is our snowglobe. Often times a uppeavel wracks the public by it’s own condition, stimulating a loop of flying comets, convictions and varieties of sentiments, the prejudices that swarm around and the details of that world blur. This Snowglobe of ours is rattled endlessly, a boring entertainment of ours. But every now and then, the dust and commentary settles and It reveals you there.