Delighted by the still remnants of sunset, we sip from our holy cups of wonder and taste the cherry wine. When heavy clouds mingle with rage, ancient valleys will moan with the infant cries of a jealous god.

As the silent bird may flee its nest, so too shall we rip from the heavens our golden fabric, to bring down the wrath of Mammon upon our sacred treasure and hearts tenfold. What pessimist walks with this broken cane, a stick made of rubber and bone, a wretched cobbler with no shoes to bring his wayward soul forward.

Naked angels with brittle wings, they dance with lonely lovers and apostles, a scattering of sad dots beneath a crooked rainbow. Watch these little darlings, these swift angels searching for tempered steel, watch as they flutter upon a spider's tender kiss, a final tango for damsels in mad distress.

Go now, the night is young. Witness the birth of a pony, the death of an angry star. Go now and remember these tiny cherubs, remember their precious lips and innocence as they wisp us into paradise, a bold new cup filled with the milk and honey of dawn.